


Camp NaNo Ficlets

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 27,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4248345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Throughout the month of July, I will be posting one story per day. They'll be short--probably around 1,000 words--unedited, and unbetaed. Basically, I write without stopping until it's finished, and then it goes straight up. I'm posting everything mostly as a way to keep myself accountable, but hopefully people will also get some enjoyment out of them. If nothing, it's a bit of insight into the raw, uncut version of how I write.</p><p>If you have a prompt or an idea you'd like to see me do, feel free to leave it as a comment or send me an ask at justacookieofacumberbatch.tumblr.com/ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1 - Naughty under the table

“Why is this always the spot for our stakeouts?” John asks as Angelo hands John a menu and places the other in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock sets it aside. “Free food.”

John peruses the menu with no real purpose, his choice of dinner already made. “Because that’s such an important consideration for you.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer in favor of watching out the window as cars pass by.

As Angelo returns with a tea light, John sighs, dropping his menu on the table. “You know, word might start to get out among the criminal population.”

Sherlock’s brows furrow, and his gaze snaps to John, incredulous. “Will it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Sherlock glances to the window and back to John before returning to his original position, his knee bumping John’s along the way. “Doubtful.”

John chuckles to himself, dropping a napkin in his lap, watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye. Sherlock’s eyes are intent on the street outside, flitting from car to car, pedestrian to pedestrian. They twinkle under this light, his curls catching it to form a hazy halo. The gaps at the front of his shirt, where the buttons pull, are cast into deep shadow. Looking at him now, John’s not so sure that Sherlock doesn’t like this place because it has the best lighting for his features. John can’t imagine it has any tactical advantage, especially as it requires one of them to sit facing away from the window. Which somehow manages to always be John.

“The usual?” Angelo asks, and John nods.

John waits in silence, propping his elbows on the table and watching the bustle of the rest of the restaurant. Sometimes, he tries to pick someone who looks interesting, see what Sherlock sees when he looks at people, but he’s never terribly successful. And really, tonight he’d rather just enjoy the night out, even if they’re only here to catch a blackmailer.

Sherlock gasps and grabs John’s thigh. “There he is.”

John spins in his seat to look out the window, and Sherlock’s hand slides to his inner thigh. “Where?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, and he pauses. His thumb taps against the top of John’s leg.

“Well?”

Sherlock huffs. “Nevermind.”

With a sigh, John turns back to the table. Just in time for the return of Angelo. And Sherlock’s hand is still firmly on his thigh. His upper thigh. With John’s napkin rucked up next to it.

Angelo sets the plate in front of John, a knowing smile on his face, and John nods, picking up his fork.

Well, there goes any chance that Angelo will ever believe that John isn’t Sherlock’s boyfriend.

John shifts in his seat as he stabs into his first bite of pasta, but as he puts it in his mouth, he scowls. Sherlock’s hand is still on his thigh, pushed even higher with John’s shifting. He glances at Sherlock, who’s still staring out the window, his expressing one of concentration. Does he even realize he’s doing that?

John clears his throat. No response.

He pulls the napkin out from where it’s bunched under Sherlock’s hand and flips it open with a snap, letting it fall back into his lap.

Still no response.

“Sherlock,” he finally says.

Sherlock grunts.

“Your hand’s on my thigh.”

“Oh,” Sherlock replies, no dawn of realization to accompany it. His hand stays in place.

John sighs. He nudges Sherlock’s hand with his knuckles, to no avail. At this point, he might as well ride it out as the only other option he can see is to pry each finger individually from his leg. And knowing Sherlock, the net effect for John will be more embarrassment than it’s worth.

So, he leaves it and tucks back into his plate.

“Anything yet?” he asks around a mouthful of penne.

“No.” Sherlock sighs in impatience, and then his fingers tap against John’s inner thigh, pinky to forefinger, pinky to forefinger.

John gasps, nearly choking, and before he can stop it, his thighs spread until his knee bumps Sherlock’s.

And somehow, that’s what grabs Sherlock’s attention. He glances down towards their knees, and his gaze catches on his own hand hidden under John’s napkin. His fingers still, hovering above John’s leg, still close enough that John can feel their presence, and John licks his lips. Sherlock doesn’t pull his hand away.

Instead, he slowly lowers his fingers back to John’s thigh, one at a time. As he does so, his eyes shift to John’s, gazing up through his lashes. And God damn him, but John finds it about the sexiest thing he’s seen, and his breath catches. Biting his bottom lip, Sherlock turns back to the window, sliding his fingers the few centimeters to John’s groin.

His fingers sweep up and down, his touch light, just enough to tease, to send a hint of sensation through the thick denim. But it’s enough, and John has to struggle to keep his composure, concentrating hard on his meal, stabbing a piece of chicken three times before he can get it to his mouth. He glances over at Sherlock, who looks totally unaffected, just staring out the window like nothing is happening.

After a moment, Sherlock stops, cupping his hand over John’s groin and giving it a squeeze. All of John’s muscles tense to keep him from jumping out of his seat, his fork shaking in midair, almost slipping from his fingers. He spreads his legs further, and Sherlock does it again, forcing a breath from John’s nose. And somehow, John manages not to let a sound out with it.

Finally, John closes his mouth around his fork and chews.

“I don’t think our blackmailer is coming,” Sherlock says, still looking out the window. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” John croaks. He clears his throat. “All right.”


	2. 2 - Belstaff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://57circlesofhell.tumblr.com/post/122695104429/also-a-nice-concept-sherlock-naked-in-the)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention previously that I will be on vacation from the 17th to the 21st, so there probably won't be any chapters posted during those days.

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock complained as a pair in Hazmat suits escorted him towards a column of tarp. “I was only in there for a second.”

The besuited people either didn’t hear or didn’t listen because they continued to drag him down a flight of stairs, the front doors of the stone building behind them clearly marked, Quarantine. Sherlock continued his verbal assault all the way down the stairs until they plopped him down in front of the mobile shower, blue tarp suspended from a hoop with a shower head directly above it, and John chuckled.

When they had arrived, John didn’t honestly think Sherlock would have been foolish enough to actually go into the building. He thought they might actually stop to talk to the scores of emergency responders already out front, but then, he probably should have expected Sherlock to try to sneak in. So, when John patently refused to follow, Sherlock had thrown his coat at John and marched in on his own.

How would Sherlock react when he found out John was the one who told on him?

John chuckled as Sherlock’s new buddies turned on the water in the portable shower and coaxed him into it, fully dressed no less. Honestly, Sherlock knew chemistry better than anyone John had ever met. How had he not seen this coming?

Slowly, wet bits of clothing were flung from the confines of the tarp, where one of the Hazmat-suited people bagged them. When Sherlock’s pants came flying from the shower, John heard him yell, “Are we quite finished?”

After another moment, where John wondered whether the water was still on for Sherlock’s benefit or for the technicians’, the water came off, and one of the technicians handed a towel through the gap. Sherlock emerged, curls plastered to his forehead and dripping water down his back, with the towel wrapped around his waist. One of the technicians offered Sherlock a stack of what appeared to be some sort of paper clothing, but Sherlock scowled, saying something John couldn’t hear. But then, Sherlock’s eyes searched the crowd.

“John,” he yelled, beckoning John over.

With a huff, John went, wondering what fresh delight Sherlock had in store for him. He was probably going to send John home to pick up one of his suits, with a long list of instructions that John was sure to forget. Instead, Sherlock grabbed his coat from where it was draped over John’s arm, flinging it around his still-damp shoulders.

Somehow, buttoning his coat over his damp body and flimsy towel, Sherlock still managed to look haughty, his face expressing all the indignity he felt people had thrust upon him. Indignity he refused to feel.

Whipping the scarf from his pocket, Sherlock said, “Come on, John. We’re going home.”

“Aren’t you at least curious about what happened?”

“Not if it means spending one more second around these people.”

“All right.” John shrugged as Sherlock strode past him.

“Excuse me, sir?” one of the people in the Hazmat suits said.

Sherlock spun, spitting, “What?”

“We need the towel back.”

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock reached under the hem of his coat, gripping the end of the towel and flinging it free. Then, he dropped it on the ground, spinning and stalking off.

John chuckled as he followed, the hilarity of Sherlock’s proud stride against his bare feet and soaking hair, of bare legs peeking out from under his coat was just too much to take. But then, oh God, he was naked under there.

Sherlock stepped to the kerb, hailing a cab, and John hurried to catch up. There was no way he was letting Sherlock climb half-naked into a cab by himself. And knowing Sherlock, if John wasn’t right there when the cab pulled up, Sherlock would take off without him.

The cab pulled up, and Sherlock climbed in, giving the cabbie their address. As he scooted across the seat to make room for John, he somehow managed to keep his feet off the floor, finally settling behind the driver with his feet propped at the edge of his seat, his knees peeking out from between the plackets near the bottom of his coat.

“I told you not to go in there,” John said, peering at Sherlock’s knees from the corner of his eyes, the bit of thigh that came with them. If John were sitting across from Sherlock right now, he would probably get an eyeful. His eyes went wide at the realization, and he scooted himself up in his seat.

“Yes, well, it would have been fine if I hadn’t been caught.”

The cab jostled, and Sherlock’s foot flew out to catch himself on the barrier.

“Do you need some help?” John asked.

“No, I’m fine,” Sherlock said as he wriggled himself into a more upright position, the gap below the last button sliding lower as he went.

John concentrated on the traffic in front of them, but he couldn’t help but hazard a few glances.

Finally, Sherlock righted himself and tugged down on the coat, but he kept one foot against the barrier, the coat draping open over his thigh. His leg was tense with effort, and John could see the outline of every lean muscle, almost to his hip.

John cleared his throat. “Isn’t that itchy?”

“No. The lining is actually rather soft.” He grabbed the corner draped over his outer thigh and circled his thumb over the inside. “Would you like to have a feel?”

“No!” John shouted, his jaw clacking shut once he realized how loud he’d been. “I’m all right.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed at John, but he didn’t say anything. Thank God for small miracles. But, Sherlock’s thumb continued to draw circles against the lining of his coat, his other hand resting innocently enough on his other leg. But John fixated on it anyway, willing it to part the gap a little further, push the coat up his body.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the short ride, and when the cab pulled up to 221b, John threw a note at the cabbie and went straight for the front door.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was right behind him. He could hear the bare feet slapping against the stairs, as if Sherlock was walking heavily just to annoy him. Finally, after a fumble, John got his keys in the lock, opened the door, and jogged up the stairs, every fiber of his being straining to just look normal.

He hung up his coat inside the door and circled directly to the kitchen. Tea. Tea would be good. He could concentrate on the steps and wouldn’t need to even look in Sherlock’s direction as he would surely go straight to his bedroom to change.

But instead, Sherlock appeared right next to him at the sink.

“Tea?” John asked.

“All right.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Don’t you want to get changed?”

“I’m actually quite comfortable,” Sherlock replied, sweeping out of the kitchen and flopping onto the sofa facing away from John.

When John returned with the tea, he found Sherlock in the same position, reading a magazine. John held out the tea, waiting for Sherlock to take it, and then cleared his throat.

“The coffee table is fine.”

John sighed and set Sherlock’s cup down, grabbing the remote control off the table and flipping on the telly.

As he surfed through the channels, he asked, “Could I get a spot on the sofa?”

Sherlock answered by lifting his feet.

“No.”

“Suit yourself.” Sherlock dropped his feet.

John huffed. He had half a mind to sit on Sherlock’s head, but then his arse would get wet.

“Fine,” he said, thumping Sherlock’s feet with the remote. “But if you talk over the movie, I’m throwing you off.”

Sherlock shrugged, lifting his feet again. “Fair enough.”

Somehow, John managed to watch the movie with Sherlock’s calves perched on his thighs for several minutes without his mind wandering to Sherlock’s naked body under the coat. But then, Sherlock sighed, a long, satisfied sound, and John realized he’d been idly tapping his thumb against Sherlock’s kneecap.

John froze, opening his mouth to apologize, but then the meaning behind the noise that got his attention hit him. Sherlock was enjoying it.

John’s hand relaxed, and a naughty smile crept across his face. Keeping his eyes on the screen, John circled the pad of his thumb against the inside of Sherlock’s knee, dipping just slightly into the crook behind it, and Sherlock let out a long breath, stretching his toes against the end of the sofa.

 _Sherlock, you bad boy_ , John thought, rotating his palm until it rested against the inside of Sherlock’s knee, his fingers on Sherlock’s lower thigh. Sherlock’s knee rotated out, but his face was still hidden behind the magazine, the full extent of his reaction hidden. And God, but that was hot.

John’s breath sped up, but it remained steady as his vision went hazy with arousal. Slowly, as slowly as he dared, he slid his hand up Sherlock’s thigh, watching as they parted more with each inch traversed. His other hand gripped Sherlock’s shin, his breathing growing more ragged as his own pants got tighter.

Finally, his fingertips grazed Sherlock’s scrotum, and Sherlock’s breath hitched, his hands clenching around the paper in his hands, the crinkling sound deafening even over the television.

There John paused, his fingertips against the crux between thigh and groin, and waited for some sign from Sherlock that he should continue. And when Sherlock’s foot hit the ground, his hips rising from the sofa, John didn’t need to wait any longer. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock and stroked slowly. He watched his own hand rise and fall under the coat with abject fascination as he gulped ragged breaths.

Oh God, he was touching Sherlock’s cock. Drops of precome were gathering against his thumb and fingers. And Sherlock’s hips were canting into it, the sexiest little noises coming from behind the magazine. John wanted to see his face, wanted to see how much he liked this, but somehow, the mystery of it excited him. Just like the mystery of just what Sherlock’s cock looked like under that coat.

So, John didn’t venture to move the coat or take the magazine away, he just explored the feel of Sherlock’s cock in his hand, forming a mental picture of it, letting Sherlock’s hips set the pace. Soon, Sherlock’s thighs started to tremble, his sounds grew more desperate, the movement of his hips grew erratic, and John swallowed. Sherlock was going to come. John was doing that to him.

And God, how he wanted to see it, but before he could come out of his erotic trance, Sherlock stilled, his hips levitating off the sofa. John felt Sherlock grow impossibly harder before his cocked jumped and pulsed in John’s hand, Sherlock’s hips stuttering and his mouth silent, ribbons of come dripping down John’s fingers.

Slowly, Sherlock’s hips drifted back down to the sofa. John kept his hand loose around Sherlock as the reality of the situation slowly settled over him. That really just happened. How did that really just happen?

After a long moment, another long sigh drifted from behind the magazine, and John’s awareness slowly drifted back to him. He let go of Sherlock, wiping his hand on the only surface readily available, the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. Eventually, his hand found its way back to Sherlock’s knee and his eyes back to the screen. He watched without gleaning any meaning, his eyelids blinking and his jaw slack.


	3. 3 - A Proper Cup of Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barista!Sherlock and Sugardaddy!John
> 
> A little fluff for your Friday.

It wasn’t the ding at the door that caught Sherlock’s attention; it was the footfalls--clipped, heavy, precise. But one leg was just slightly off cadence with the other. Interesting.

He looked up from the espresso machine to find an unassuming, ordinary-looking man. Or at least, that’s what most people would have thought. But Sherlock knew better. He could see the military background in his gait and his haircut, the medical career in his hands and summer suit. His eyelids were squinted against the sun, but as he entered the relative dark of the cafe, he blinked them back into normalcy, his blown pupils meeting Sherlock’s.

The man nodded in Sherlock’s direction before going to the back of the line. If anyone had asked him later, Sherlock would vehemently deny that any blush appeared on his cheeks. The were always red from steam. He would also deny staring. The man was too old for him anyway.

As Sherlock went back to his duties, he pondered. It was nearing the dinner hour, and the man did not have the look of someone winding down for the day. So, caffeinated. Heavily. Something no frills. The man didn’t even take sugar in his coffee. So, brewed coffee. But, high-stress career choices. Bad stomach.

So that meant a large brewed coffee with a shot of espresso--no, two--and enough cream to coat the stomach without diluting the coffee.

“Gretchen,” Sherlock called, setting an iced mocha on the counter and perching a wrapped straw on the lid. As he started the next drink, he glanced toward the cash register.

There were three people in line ahead of the army doctor. The first chewed on her bottom lip, folding and unfolding a slip of paper. Complicated order for someone else, likely a boss, but she would be quick about it. The second had her credit card tucked between her fingers. Brewed coffee to go. The third stared at the menu, rocking on his feet, hands in the pockets of his expensive suit. Now, he would take some time to order. And he had bumped the woman in front of him twice without even noticing. He wouldn’t let someone in front of him while he decided.

Sherlock smiled. Perfect.

He packed extra grounds for the single mocha he’d started, setting the extra shot aside as he finished. Next, he poured the brewed coffee for the woman in line, starting an extra cup as he handed it off to the cashier. Finally, as he started the dry half-caf cappuccino with soy for the boss, he commandeered a second shot to pour into Hot Army Doctor’s coffee, topping it with cream as milk steamed nearby.

He slid the cappuccino to the counter, grabbed Hot Army Doctor’s cup on the way to the cash register, and set it down just as the feet rocker moved on.

“Does this belong to someone?” the army doctor asked, glancing around.

“No,” the cashier huffed. “It’s for you. He does that sometimes.”

“Does what?”

“Makes the coffee he thinks people want before they order it. I know. It’s weird.”

Sherlock watched through the steam fog as a crooked little smile spread on the doctor’s face.

The doctor pulled out his wallet. “Well, before I pay, can I at least know what’s in it?”

“Sherlock,” the cashier shouted over the whistle of the steamer. “What drink did you make?”

Sherlock shut off the steamer, wiping down the wand with a wet cloth. “Large double red eye with fifteen CC’s of cream.”

As Sherlock poured milk over the other ingredients in the feet rocker’s cup, the cashier asked, “Did he get it right?”

“Actually, that wasn’t what I planned to order.”

“No problem, sir, we can make you an-” the cashier started.

“No no,” the doctor said, raising his hands in surrender. “I want it. It sounds perfect.”

Sherlock smiled to himself as he handed off the final drink. If you asked him later, he would say he was merely pleased to have been proven right once again. And with that thought warming his heart, he set into cleaning up his station.

As he pushed steam-matted hair off his forehead, Sherlock heard the unmistakable sound of someone clearing his throat. He sighed, certain that the source was the feet rocker seeking to tell him how he made the drink wrong, but when he turned towards the voice, he found Hot Army Doctor instead.

“Good evening, sir. Is there something I can help you with?” Sherlock asked, drying his hands on a towel hooked to his apron.

“Yeah,” the doctor replied. “Um, no. I just wanted to say thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sherlock went back to his task, but several seconds later, he glanced up to find the army doctor still standing there. His brows furrowed.

The man smiled. He leaned forward, resting one elbow on the counter, and Sherlock found himself leaning in, like they were about to share a secret.

“Listen,” the army doctor said, glancing down at his hand as he tapped his fingers against the counter. “I don’t usually do this.”

The army doctor licked his lips, glancing from Sherlock’s mouth back down to his own hand. Sherlock waited for a long moment.

The man cleared his throat, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s. “What time do you get off?”

If you asked Sherlock later, he would insist once again that he didn’t blush. “We close at eleven.”

“If I were to drop by, could I…” He licked his lips again.

Sherlock smirked, and if you asked him later, he would tell you that he absolutely did not find the doctor’s hesitation cute as hell.

However, he wasn’t one to not incite a reaction. “Suck me off in the loo?”

“What?” the doctor sputtered. “No-- I mean-- I would--” He took a breath, shooting Sherlock a playful glare. “I was going to ask for a drink.”

“I suppose we could do that instead.”

The doctor laughed. “All right. I’ll see you then, Sherlock.”

“See you then…”

“John.” John held out his hand. “I’m John.”


	4. 4 - Shared Bathroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was going to continue the coffee shop thing (which I will later), but then I saw [this](http://deduce-my-heart.tumblr.com/post/123216015221/shared-bathroom-at-221b).

_We’re on our way. SH_

Sherlock set his phone on the kitchen table and crossed to the bathroom. He knocked.

“John, there’s a case,” he called through the door.

“What?” John yelled over the spray of the shower.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock cracked open the door enough to stick his head in. “I said there’s a case. Get ready.”

John’s wet head appeared from behind the shower curtain, one hand gripping the edge of it. “We just got in from one.”

“This one’s for Lestrade.”

“Well, he didn’t just spend forty minutes digging through a skip.” John whipped the curtain closed. ”He can wait.”

Sherlock huffed and closed the door. He paced in front of the door for several rotations, the smell of his own soiled suit bringing up bile in the back of his throat. Perhaps John had a point.

Sherlock pressed his ear to the door only to hear angry muttering, which seemed to feature his name quite profusely. Well, that wasn’t helpful at all. It gave him absolutely no clue as to how much longer he would be, and if history were any indicator, Sherlock’s interruption had only served to extend the shower. He huffed. John and his moods.

Sherlock strode into his bedroom and shut the door behind him, stripping himself of his clothing and tossing it aside. The smell was truly horrific, and Sherlock considered for a moment whether it would be best to just chuck the suit out the window rather than send it to the cleaners.

After a moment’s consideration, Sherlock came back out to the kitchen for a bin liner and tossed the suit in there, leaving them both on the kitchen floor, clearly labelled, “Suit.” Next, he made his way back to the bedroom and again listened through the door, though this time he listened at the one in his bedroom. Better acoustics.

Still, John’s muttering continued, interspersed with occasional grunts, still featuring Sherlock’s name. No other sounds provided any clue that John’s time in the shower might be coming to an end, and Sherlock paced again. There really was no need to take a shower this long. After forty minutes in a skip, it was just a fact of life that some of the smell would linger, and assuming one’s scrubbing technique was sufficient, one would hit diminishing returns after only the second soaping. Really, at this point, John was just being difficult.

And Sherlock couldn’t stand his own smell for one more second.

So, he opened the bathroom door and strode in, grabbing a flannel and stepped into the shower. As he pulled the curtain closed, checking it for gaps where cold air could come in, he reached over John’s shoulder.

“Pass the soap.”

Now, there were a few things that Sherlock noticed in that moment. One was that John’s soap and flannel had been abandoned. Second, was that one of John’s hands had been on his groin. And the third was that Sherlock’s arm was being quite painfully twisted and wrenched behind his back.

He managed to catch himself before he landed face first on the tile, but then his feet slipped from under him, running uselessly on the slick floor before John’s hip pressed to his coccyx. Sherlock let his face rest against the cool tile as his free hand gripped uselessly at it. The pain of muscles stretched past their limit shot down Sherlock’s arm, his back pulled to unnatural angles, a larger portion of his body weight supported on his coccyx than the bone was ever meant to take. It hurt, all of it, more than Sherlock would have liked to admit.

But despite all that, the momentary brush of John’s erect cock on Sherlock’s buttock was the sensation that gripped him, and all the pain and discomfort only put it into sharper focus, only made each point of contact between their naked bodies more electric. More striking. The slide and stick of wet skin against dry. The fingers pressed to Sherlock’s pulse point. The subtle grind of hip bone against coccyx a superposition of their disparate breathing rhythms.

“Sherlock, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” John growled, his voice low and commanding.

And in that moment, Sherlock was instantly, blindingly, achingly hard, and he couldn’t stop a whine from escaping.

“Christ,” Sherlock heard from somewhere disconnected from all the dissonant sensations in his body, and then his arm was free, the supporting weight behind him disappearing, and his feet slipped out from under him.

Before Sherlock could catch himself or hit anything, John’s hands were under his arms, the crook of John’s thumbs digging into the tendons under his shoulders. The pain sent a pulse straight to Sherlock’s cock, leaving the rest of his body to play catch up. Finally, his feet were under him, but his treacherous transport was still aching. He blinked at the tile in front of him. His body had taken him so by surprise that he couldn’t process it.

“Sorry,” John said from somewhere far away. “But Christ, Sherlock, you can’t just barge in here like that. What were you thinking?”

“I”--he blinked, his mouth hanging stupidly open for too long while trying to form a word--”stink.”

“Well, yeah. Digging through rubbish will do that.”

Sherlock blinked at the tile, his hands forming fists at his sides as he tried to delete everything that happened since he reached for the soap. But, instead, his mind kept playing it over and over, reminding him of each discrete sensation, of the whole greater than the sum, of how much he’d like it to happen again. Already his mind was swirling around possibilities of ways to instigate John’s anger, make him use that soldier voice again.

“Hey,” John said, laying a hand over Sherlock’s shoulder, and the breath that Sherlock hadn’t realized he’d been holding rushed out.

His lungs filled, flooding his body with oxygen, and on the next exhale, a broken sound between a huff and moan stutter from his throat. God damn transport.

“Sherlock, are you all right?”

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock said, still staring at the tile, gesturing vaguely downwards. “This was… unexpected.”

“Wha-- Oh.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, waiting for the anger again, though his body warred between wanting and dreading it.

“Is that why you came in here?”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. John didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound amused. He sounded… nervous? Was he nervous? Why was he nervous? Sherlock’s brows furrowed as he peered over his shoulder at John, who was leaning against the shower wall, smiling up at him. Smiling?

“No,” Sherlock finally said. “I was in a hurry to leave.”

“Still in a hurry?” John licked his lips, his smile grew.

A smile played at the corner of Sherlock’s lips. He peered down at his hands. “I suppose a few minutes won’t hurt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there will be more. I wouldn't leave you hanging.
> 
> Well, I would, but not forever.


	5. 5 - Shared Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of chapter 4.

John’s palm cupped Sherlock’s cheek, the rough skin catching on five-o’clock shadow, and Sherlock closed his eyes, tilted his head back so the palm would skate down to his neck. The warm, wet hand slid over Sherlock’s pulse point, his Adam’s apple, fingers curling around his nape. This was the hand that held John’s cock, that wrench Sherlock’s arm, his mind helpfully supplied, and Sherlock gripped John’s forearm in both of his hands, keeping himself tethered.

His heart raced, and his eyelids pressed tight together. His hands followed the movement of John’s arm, trailing along as John’s hand returned to his cheek, thumb curling around his jaw. And then Sherlock felt pressure guiding his face over and down. And then lips on his, soft, tentative. At first, they only brushed Sherlock’s, and tension eased from his shoulders, taking breath with it. Breath that hit the contours of John’s mouth still poised millimeters from Sherlock’s.

Sherlock wanted to open his eyes, make a mental map of this moment, of just what John’s face looked like right before he kissed, but he was afraid. He was afraid that one false move would break the spell, as if a tenuous thread was strung between them, broken as easily as a strand of spider silk.

But then John’s lips curled around Sherlock’s bottom one, his tongue tracing across it, his bottom teeth grazing against it as he pulled back only to dive back in again. Sherlock’s mouth fell open, caressing John with his breath more than anything as John nibbled at his lips, teased them with his tongue, dragged his own mouth against them.

“What are you doing?” asked Sherlock, pressing forward to capture John’s lips only for John to pull away.

“I’ve waited a long time for this. I’m damn well going to savor it.” And with that, John dipped to Sherlock’s jaw, pressing his tongue to Sherlock’s pulse point and slowly sliding down.

As John’s free hand slipped around Sherlock’s waist, fingertips resting on the small of his back, Sherlock grabbed the shower rod, fist clenching tight around it. His head fell back, his breath coming in short pants. He was awash with sensation, his cock still hard and aching between his thighs, quickly growing desperate for attention, and his other hand squeezed at John’s forearm to keep himself from grabbing it. And John just kept at it, exploring the column of Sherlock’s neck at a glacial pace, teeth grazing at his Adam’s apple, underneath his chin, his suprasternal notch and over to his clavicle.

Then John went still. He cleared his throat, and Sherlock’s eyes flew open. Oh God, he had broken the spell. Had he? What had he done? Perhaps John preferred his lovers to be more take charge, and Sherlock’s relative inactivity had been a turn off. Or did the reality of “Not Gay” Watson pleasuring a man finally overrule the arousal of the prospect? If Sherlock looked down at John’s face, what expression would he see? Regret? Disgust? Anger?

Sherlock blinked, steeling himself for the possibilities, when he heard John laughing, the huffs of breath from it hitting his shoulder.

His brows furrowed and his lips pushed themselves into a pout. “Is something funny?”

“You were actually serious when you said you stank.”

Sherlock looked down at John’s smiling face. “Of course I was.”

“So, this really wasn’t an ill-advised way of hitting on me.”

“No. But given the results, I’d hardly call it ill-advised.”

John chuckled again, looking off to the side as he scratched the back of his neck. “Here”--he stepped aside, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders to guide him to John’s other side--”get under the water.”

Sherlock complied, tilting his head back until it was under the spray, letting the water sluice down his body, trickle over his over-sensitive skin, and he moaned.

“God,” John breathed, his hand bracketing Sherlock’s hips. “Look at you.”

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, letting the praise wash over him with the water, concentrating on the way John’s hands shifted over his skin, how they slid more freely now that they were both wet. He could get used to this, being touched so gently, so reverently in his most intimate places. John hadn’t even touched his cock yet, still keeping to hips and back and stomach, but every inch of skin came alive under John’s fingertips. All those years of suppressing his bodily desires, and John had somehow managed to open the floodgates.

Next, Sherlock felt the textured softness of a flannel working over his chest, suds fizzing against his skin, a bare hand following close behind. The flannel scrubbed over his stomach, down his arms, fingers entwining with his. But just as Sherlock’s eyes met John’s through the haze--his gaze dropping to John’s lips, his body swaying towards John’s--John turned him to face the spray.

John started washing at Sherlock’s shoulders, chuckling at Sherlock’s shudder at being washed under the arms, working down his back, spending more time than necessary on Sherlock’s arse. Finally, he worked a bare, soapy hand between Sherlock’s thighs, fingers sliding along Sherlock’s perineum to cup his balls, and Sherlock shivered, taking in a shaky breath. John’s arm snaked around Sherlock’s stomach, pulling Sherlock back against him, and finally Sherlock felt the brush of John’s erection against his thighs.

“You’re content to just let me do all the work, aren’t you?” John asked, pressing his lips between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, fingers combing over the hair leading down from his navel.

Sherlock hummed in reply, which broke off into a gasp when John’s hand wrapped around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s hips canted forward, his breath forcing a needy whine from his throat, and he found himself desperate for something to hold onto as his knees threatened to give out.

One hand flew to John’s forearm, following the movement as John slowly worked his cock. The other reached around behind, fingers desperately reaching for John’s hair as he bent himself backwards, lips searching.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John huffed as he captured Sherlock’s mouth. The angle was awkward, leaving them barely able to keep their mouths together as Sherlock curved himself backwards, hips pushing him into John’s fist.

“John,” Sherlock panted between kisses, already racing towards the precipice.

“God.” John broke from Sherlock’s lips to press his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder. “You’re so hard for me. Look at you. The way you move.”

John’s free hand kneaded at Sherlock’s arse, and Sherlock could feel John’s body rock underneath him, seeking contact and finding none. He reached back to give John what he needed but found himself clutching John’s thigh instead as the first wave of orgasm crashed through him.

“That’s it, love,” John gruffed, propping his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder, the hand on Sherlock’s arse sliding between Sherlock’s legs to press at his perineum. “Come for me. Let me see it.”

Somewhere underneath the sounds of John’s rough voice talking him through it, Sherlock heard himself make some truly embarrassing noises, but he couldn’t care. All was centered in laser-like focus on where John’s hands were on him, guiding him through his orgasm, keeping him from falling, until finally all the tension eased from Sherlock’s muscles. His heels met the shower floor, and he slumped forward, resting his head against the tile below the showerhead. One hand kept him steady on the wall as the other held onto John’s forearm.

John sighed. “That was--”

“Short”

“--amazing.”

John chuckled, free hand sliding over Sherlock’s arse, up his back, and back down again, and Sherlock smiled, arching his back, preening at the touch and the praise. He pressed his arse back, luxuriating in post-orgasmic haze, until he felt John’s cock slide between his cheeks.

John gasped, pulling back only to thrust forward again, the tip of his cock cresting at Sherlock’s coccyx. He did it again, his hands pressing to Sherlock’s arse cheeks, slotting them tighter against John’s cock.

“Is this okay?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded his head, letting a moan escape as John pushed forward again.

For a moment, John’s touched disappeared, but before Sherlock could ask what he was doing, his hands appeared again, slick with soap. He spread it between Sherlock’s cheeks, fingertips grazing his perineum, making him shiver.

“Too sensitive?” John asked, his soapy fingers skating over Sherlock’s hole.

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “Do it, John.”

“Fuck,” John huffed, sliding his slick cock between Sherlock’s cheeks. It felt so deliciously dirty, John’s hands pressing his cheeks together, his cock teasing at sensitive flesh. If Sherlock hadn’t just come, he might have been begging John to fuck him. As it was, he simply moaned and rocked in counterpoint with John.

“Sherlock,” John grunted. “You’re so-- God-- Your arse-- Look at you.”

John’s thrusts came faster, his voice rising in pitch until his movements grew erratic.

“Wanna fuck you,” John said just as his cock jerked against Sherlock’s arse, and anything else he was going to say got lost in a litany of groans and grunts. Finally, he collapsed against Sherlock’s back.

After several moments while his breathing returned to normal, John sighed, “Wow.”

Sherlock hummed, his eyelids heavy, but then he gasped, “Oh!”

“What?”

“We have a case. Get up. Let’s go.”


	6. 6 - Sex Line Operator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://cup-of-hot-coffee.tumblr.com/post/118599158660/job-aus).
> 
> _‘I have a very cute neighbour and very thin walls and one day I call you and err your moans are very synchronised with my neighbour’s’ AU_

He was moaning again. John had never heard someone so vocal in his life. At all hours of the day, he was talking to himself at full volume--usually at someone named Billy, though John had never heard this person respond--or he was yelling about how bored he was or sawing away on his violin. Which was the thing John especially didn’t understand. He’d heard some actually beautiful music from the man’s violin, and yet almost as often came scratches and screeches.

And then there was the moaning. Twice John had stomped next door and pounded on the door only to be greeted by the nude, aroused body of his neighbor--once with a partner calling to him from the bedroom and once apparently by himself. And really, everything else he could handle. When he played properly, the violin was quite nice. John found it soothing, actually. And the talking and yelling could be amusing.

But the moaning.

And of course the fact that the man was bloody gorgeous and the voice was bloody sinful didn’t help matters. Nor did the near constant parade of men leaving for their walks of shame just as John left for work. It was just far too much knowledge to have about the sex life of a man he’d barely talked to in the months since he’d moved in. He hadn’t even learned the man’s name. Though it did shed some light on why the flat was immediately available.

John tossed his keys and mail on the kitchen table and pulled some leftover takeaway from the fridge, flipping on the telly as he sat down. As he opened the box, he thumbed through his mail, stopping at a sloppily folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and smoothed it out against the table.

A telephone number emblazoned the top of the paper, the rest advertising the phone-sex prowess of someone named Sherlock. Now there was a fake name if John had ever heard one. Along the side was a skinny black-and-white picture of a man’s back, from shoulders to calves. One of the man’s hands was hooked into the side of the waistband of a dark pair of boxer-briefs, pulling them down his thigh enough to reveal the crest of sharp hipbones, the swell of buttocks, and a sliver of the cleft between.

True, the man in the picture was stunning, and John would have chatted him up any day of the week. Of course, the odds that the man in the picture and the one on the phone would be the same person were approximately nil. So, he tossed the paper aside, propping his feet on one of the other chairs at the table as he flipped through channels and shoveled his dinner into his mouth.

And still the neighbor’s sex noises echoed in John’s flat.

John turned up the volume, determined not to let it affect him this time. But as John’s dinner dwindled, his neighbor’s noises grew louder, reaching a fever pitch. And it was getting harder and harder to remain unaffected. The breathy moans and sighs had morphed into grunts and broken cries that were reaching a fever pitch.

John stared at the wall behind the telly, fork hanging loosely from his fingers. He didn’t hear a companion voice this time, nor a telltale squeak or thump of rocking furniture. So he was by himself. Probably nearing orgasm, and John had the aid of vivid memories to help him picture the scene--his neighbor butt naked, long fingers wrapped around his cock, his eyes shut tight and mouth hanging open. God, who made that much noise while masturbating?

“I’m coming,” his neighbor muttered before going quiet, only the barest of huffs and grunts making their way through the walls, and John had to mute the television to hear the final long sigh and the creak of floors as John’s neighbor moved around his flat, opening a window before settling again.

Well, so much for remaining unaffected. He didn’t know what he expected. Ever since the first time he knocked at the neighbor’s door, those sounds had never failed to get him hard. It was downright Pavlovian.

So, he got up from the table, adjusting his trousers as he binned his leftovers, contemplating what to do about the tightness in his pants. And that was when his eyes landed once again on the flyer, on the magnificent body of the man pictured.

He blamed the lack of blood in his brain for letting him pick up his mobile and punch in the number because as it rang, he felt absolutely mortified. When the voicemail picked up, John sighed with relief until he heard the message, the voice on the other end deep and sultry.

“You’ve reached Sherlock. Don’t bother leaving a message. I know why you called.”

John hit the end button and tossed the phone aside like it was a hot potato. His heart raced from embarrassment. Excitement? He didn’t know. Nor did he know whether he hoped for or dreaded a call back.

He slumped down on the sofa and ran both hands down his face, laughing at himself. Really, the whole situation was ridiculous. Why had he let himself get so worked up? Why had he even contemplated calling the phone-sex line? Why had calling it made him so… whatever he was?

John loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. Now that the flat next door was quiet, he could finally relax, so he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He heard the window close next door and the creak of feet against the floor, and a moment later, his phone rang.

His eyes flew open, and he gave his phone the side-eye, not looking at the caller id until the phone was in his hand. It was the number for the flyer.

Oh, fuck.

John hit the answer button and put the phone to his ear. He’d just play it off as a wrong number or something.

“Hello?”

“You rang?” came the voice from the message.

“Sorry.” John cleared his throat. “I think you have the wr--”

“Chickened out, have you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man on the other end chuckled. “No need to play coy. We’re both here for the same thing.”

John blinked.

“What’s your name?”

“John.”

“Hello, John. I’m Sherlock.”

“All right.”

A creak came from next door. It sounded like John’s neighbor was settling onto a sofa, maybe. John wondered if he always masturbated naked, and if so, was he still?

“Do you know what you want tonight, John?” asked Sherlock.

“No.” John slid down on the couch cushions, letting his free hand rest on his thigh.

“What are you wearing?”

“Shirt and tie. Grey trousers.”

“Hmm. Sounds boring.”

John scoffed. “Oh, really.”

“Really.”

“And I suppose you’re wearing something better.”

“I’m not wearing anything.”

John bit his lip at the memory of the picture, but he still scoffed at the implication. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Not really.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’m not sure you understand the purpose of this service.”

“I understand fine. I’m just not sure how well I can get off to bullshit.”

“Then why call?”

John threw up his hands. “I have no idea.”

Sherlock hummed. “Undo your trousers.”

John’s fingers went straight to his belt, working it free and then starting on the button, but he still asked, “Why?”

Sherlock ignored the question in favor of asking, “What color are your pants?”

“Red.”

“Oh, now that’s a bit better.” Sherlock sighed, and the neighbor’s sofa creaked and shifted again. “I want you to cup yourself through your pants.”

John did as he was asked, feeling a bit like he was falling into a trance, and his cock pushed up against his hand.

“Are you hard for me?”

John swallowed. “Yes.”

“Good,” Sherlock moaned, and John could have sworn he heard a similar noise come from his neighbor. “Now I want you to touch yourself. Lightly. Do it over your pants.”

John took a shaky breath as he ran his fingertips up his length and back down again, rolling his balls in his fingers and then grazing his nails over his perineum.

“Are you doing it?”

“Yes,” John sighed, rubbing the heel of his hand over his cock.

Sherlock hummed, and John startled as the noise echoed through the wall. “Now tell me what you want me to do.”

Though John didn’t stop touching himself, he stared at the wall across from his as he said, “Tell me what you do when you masturbate.”

“Oh, lovely. I like to take me time, start with my nipples.”

“Pinch them. Hard.”

This time, the high-pitched yelp definitely came from both the phone and the flat next door.

John stood and walked to the wall, skating his fingertips over the surface. “Tell me how that feels.”

“It’s good, John. They’re so sensitive.” He groaned. “Oh John, if you were here, would you put your mouth on them?”

“Yeah,” John huffed, his palm flat against the wall.

“I bet you have a clever tongue.”

“I do. I’d tease you until you squirmed.”

“Mmm. I’d like that.”

John could hear the shift of Sherlock’s body against the sofa, the rhythm of the words through the wall. And he didn’t know what possessed him to do it, but as he fixed his trousers, he went for the door.

“You know what else I like?” Sherlock asked as John closed the door behind him and closed the distance between their front doors.

“What?” John asked, knocking on the door.

Sherlock huffed into the phone. “Could you give me a moment?”

“Of course.”

John listened as Sherlock got up from the sofa, as his footfalls crossed to the door, the pause as he checked the peephole. Finally, the door opened, and Sherlock stood there, actually nude, holding his mobile near his ear.

“Hi,” John said, hearing his own voice echo through his phone.


	7. 7 - Olive Green Chair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because of the delightful way in which the fandom reacted to the new promo pic.

John let the curtains fall closed as Sherlock settled into his armchair, loosening his cravat and tossing it aside. A chase through the streets had left them both quite winded and sweaty, their wool clothing clinging and itchy. While Sherlock had already dropped his jacket and waistcoat on the floor as they entered the flat, John set to the curtains first, only now pulling the jacket from his shoulders.

The heel of Sherlock’s boot hit hard against the floor. His fingers rubbed against the palms of his hands, and he grunted and cursed under his breath.

“I can’t believe he got away,” Sherlock exclaimed with a scowl.

John sat across from Sherlock, laying a hand over his knee. “We’ll find him.”

Sherlock stared at John, fingers tapping against his cheek, his leg shifting under John’s hand. “I need it.”

“Now, Sherlock? We’ve barely made it home. Surely it would be better to wait until Mrs. Hudson goes to bed.”

“No,” Sherlock grunted. “I need it now.”

“All right,” John sighed. When his friend was like this, it was true that there was only one sure solution to cure his mood. So, John stood, fetching a bottle of oil as Sherlock divested himself of the remainder of his clothing.

When John returned, Sherlock sat again on the chair, his bare arse on olive-green leather. The pomade in his hair had loosened somewhat with their earlier exertion, and a single curl escaped the slick coif, coiling at his temple.

“You are a sight to behold,” John said, handing off the bottle of oil before rolling up his sleeves.

 

“That’s lovely, John, but if we could be moving along…” Sherlock waved the bottle in the air.

John chuckled as he dropped to his knees between Sherlock’s legs, and once there, he curled his fingers around the nape of Sherlock’s neck, leaning across his body until their lips met. Sherlock’s sigh ruffled against John’s cheek, a bit of reassuring warmth. John’s tongue found Sherlock’s, licking into the velvet heat of his mouth. Sherlock’s body relaxed, sinking in the chair until John could feel Sherlock’s groin pressing against his stomach.

“John,” he whined, fingers bunching the fabric at John’s sides. Without breaking the kiss, John’s hand found the bottle in Sherlock’s, easing it from Sherlock’s grip.

“It’s all right,” John whispered as he broke off. “I’m here.”

Sitting back on his heels, John tipped oil onto his fingers as Sherlock pulled his knees up, hooking his forearms underneath them. John might never overcome the way it felt to have his friend, usually so buttoned up and in control, laid bare before him, vulnerable, wanting.

John spread oil over the pucker of Sherlock’s hole and tipped more onto his fingers. With a deep breath, he eased two fingers into Sherlock’s body, watching them disappear in abject fascination, still overwhelmed that his friend allowed this ingress. Once they were seated, he pressed his fingertips upwards until Sherlock gasped, his hips tilting into the touch.

“There,” Sherlock huffed, his eyes burning into John’s.

John slid his fingers out and back in again, grazing the pads of his fingers over the knot inside that made Sherlock writhe and moan. He watched Sherlock’s partially erect penis pulse and fill with each touch, his own cock pulsing in sympathy, pressing against the confines of his trousers. Sherlock’s muscles squeezed and released around John’s fingers, a bead of pre-ejaculate welling at the tip with one particularly brutal squeeze.

John licked his lips, mesmerized by the drop of fluid, and before the action could reach his conscious mind, his tongue flicked out to gather it. It tasted salty, viscous, and somehow aroused John even further. And Sherlock, well, Sherlock’s hands flew to John’s shoulders, urging them closer to his body.

“Add another,” Sherlock insisted, fingers pulsing around John’s biceps.

John pulled his fingers free, slicking them more before sliding three back in. Slowly, he pushed forward, easing out a bit and pushing back in as he found resistance. And Sherlock whined, writhed, pushed his hips down against John’s fingers.

John paused, shushing Sherlock, but he couldn’t help his own groan as Sherlock’s internal muscles squeezed once more, tilting his fingers upwards, bringing another drop of fluid to the tip of Sherlock’s cock. And without thought of noise level or propriety, John dipped down, drawing Sherlock’s glans into his mouth, lapping at the slit to catch everything Sherlock’s cock had to offer.

“Another,” Sherlock said, his voice wrecked, and somehow John managed to pull away long enough to slick a fourth finger and ease it in alongside the others. Muscles undulated around him, and for a moment, John thought his fingers might crush under the pressure, but slowly, with each tilt and slide of John’s fingers, Sherlock’s muscles relaxed.

John once again wrapped his lips around the tip of Sherlock’s cock as his fingers stroked the bundle of nerves inside, his thumb resting on Sherlock’s perineum.

“John,” Sherlock huffed, and hand tangling into John’s hair, thumb stroking his cheek. After a moment, the fingers stroked inwards, finding the edge of John’s lips, tracing where Sherlock’s cock met them. And with a shudder, Sherlock spilled into John’s mouth, his own mouth going silent as his body jerked and convulsed.

John waited until Sherlock’s body relaxed before releasing his cock, swallowing the ejaculate that had gathered there. Carefully, he slid his fingers free before crossing the room to his jacket, pulling his handkerchief from the pocket. He wiped his mouth and then his fingers as Sherlock put on his trousers and shirt. Sherlock then began packing a pipe as John collapsed into the chair across.

“Perhaps supper at the club and then the Turkish bath?” Sherlock offered.

“I think I’d rather like that.”


	8. 8 - Busted Sex Line Operator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of [chapter 6](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4248345/chapters/9730572).

“Hello,” Sherlock said as he ended the call.

John followed suit, slipping the phone into his pocket. “So, do you always answer your door naked, or is that just for me?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You were better on the phone.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

Sherlock made no move to cover himself with the door or invite John to do anything but stand in the hallway. He just stood--one hand on the doorframe, the other on the door--staring at John, mostly at his face. John swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry as Sherlock glanced down his body, gaze settling for a moment on the still-prominent bulge in John’s trousers before returning to John’s face with a smirk. And to John’s eternal mortification, his own gaze darted to Sherlock’s groin. He forced it back to Sherlock’s face as quickly as he could, but not before he spotted the erection jutting from Sherlock’s body.

So, this was the third time John had seen his neighbor’s erection without learning his name. And this time, apparently, it was for him. Oh, God.

“Is Sherlock your real name?”

“Yes.”

“Honestly?”

Sherlock’s eyelids narrowed. “Do you want identification?”

“No, I--” John scratched the back of his neck and peered down the hallway. “It’s just an unusual name, is all.”

“Well, you can take that up with my parents.”

John chuckled. “I just might.”

A smile played at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and John watched it twitch. God, this was strange. Sherlock’s posture and tone of voice were totally casual, as if he wasn’t exposing himself to anyone who might walk by. As if John hadn’t put them in the extraordinarily awkward position of carrying on a face-to-face conversation after starting some anonymous phone sex.

John felt that he just wanted to disappear and slink away to the safety of his own flat, but Sherlock’s gaze held him there. It was amused, bemused, maybe a little heated, though John suspected that was just wishful thinking. But--John glanced down--he was still sporting an erection. Maybe getting caught turned him on.

John licked his lips, his gaze stuck on Sherlock’s throat, not quite able to meet his eyes lest he found something he didn’t want to see. He wished Sherlock would say something, even it was just to tell him to sod off. At least that would end John’s silent speculation. Because if Sherlock wasn’t embarrassed or angry, if he wasn’t making John leave, maybe that meant he wanted John to stay. And even if he didn’t, did John have anything to lose by finding out? If the boldness of knocking at his door wasn’t too much, maybe he should just continue on the path.

“So,” John said, peering at Sherlock through his lashes, “what was it?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “What was what?”

John licked his lips, steeling himself for possible rejection. “What else do you like?”

Sherlock smirked. “If you’re so curious, maybe you should have stayed on the phone.”

John shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I suppose I was just too interested in the synchronized noises coming from the flat next door. Plus, I’m not the one who ended the call, am I?”

Sherlock swung the door wide, holding it at arm’s length. “Maybe you should come in.”

John nodded, licking his lips, his heart rate kicking up. “All right.”

He ducked under Sherlock’s arm and looked around as Sherlock shut the door behind them. The flat was a near mirror image of John’s, though the furniture was certainly more interesting, and eclectic mix of antiques and oddities, not to mention the bull skull wearing headphones.

But John didn’t have much time to take it in as Sherlock crowded behind him, pulling his tie loose and going to work on the buttons.

“Whoa,” John said, even though his body pressed back against Sherlock’s. “Don’t you want to talk or something?”

“Dull.” Sherlock latched onto the crook between John’s neck and shoulder, teeth pressing into the skin and tongue tracing the marks left behind as he slipped a hand beneath the open vee of John’s half-unbuttoned shirt, running the pads of his fingers over John’s nipple.

John gasped, arching towards Sherlock’s hand as his shoulders pressed to Sherlock’s chest. “You--ah--have a point there.”

Sherlock’s other arm wrapped around John’s waist, pulling their bodies flush, Sherlock’s cock nestled against the small of John’s back. And still, the alternating biting and soothing at John’s neck continued. He was sure to have a mark the next day, probably creeping above the line of his collar, but he couldn’t be arsed to care. Not with Sherlock’s naked body pressed against him, the swish of fabric against bare skin loud in his ears. His own quiet exhalations seemed to echo in the space, and fear that other neighbors might hear quickly warped into excitement.

John turned his face to Sherlock’s, murmuring in his ear, “Kiss me.”

With one last lave over teeth marks, Sherlock lifted his head enough for John to capture his lips. They were as soft as they looked, pouty and warm. John snatched the bottom one between his teeth, his hand flying to the nape of Sherlock’s neck to pull him closer. The kiss was hard, fast, rough, all teeth and tongues. Pressing, sliding, grazing. Sherlock rocked against John’s body, wetness seeping through John’s shirt at the small of his back, making him shiver.

The hand around John’s waist flew to his groin, and John broke the kiss with a gasp, panting against Sherlock’s mouth as Sherlock’s grip imposed a rhythm. John closed his eyes against the sensations. Hot breath smelling of cigarette smoke on his face. Sherlock’s fingers plucking at a nipple. The pressure of Sherlock’s cock against his spine. Long fingers curled around the bulge in his trousers, the grip bordering on too much, but it just made John’s hips cant higher, thrust harder.

“Is this really what you want?” John asked, biting back a whine as the hand on John’s chest withdrew.

Sherlock’s tongue darted out to taste John’s bottom lip. “I don’t do anything I don’t want.”

With that Sherlock released his grip on John, spinning him around so they were face to face. John swayed into the gravity of Sherlock’s body, catching himself on Sherlock’s forearms as he went back to work on John’s buttons, tugging the shirt from his trousers. Once the shirt was free, John let go of Sherlock to whip the shirt off his shoulders, and Sherlock undid John’s trousers. John wasn’t accostomed to being undressed by an already naked partner, and it left him at a bit of a loss of what to do with his hands.

Gingerly, he laid his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders, following them down as Sherlock tugged John’s trousers and pants to his ankles. And as Sherlock stood again, John let his hands remain by his hips, palms following the contours of biceps and forearms until he held Sherlock’s wrists within the circle of his fingers. Sherlock dipped his head, but John pulled his back, searching Sherlock’s eyes.

“I don’t understand. You can have anyone you want. I’ve seen it.”

Sherlock closed the scant distance between them, fingers curving over the swell of John’s arse. “Your point being?”

“This doesn’t make any sense.”

“John, shut up.”

And Sherlock set about making John do just that, crashing their mouths together, his tongue teasing at the surprised seam of John’s lips until John opened them. His fingers flew to Sherlock’s curls, tangling and tugging, and the noise Sherlock made went straight to John’s cock, making it twitch, the glans sliding against Sherlock’s upper thigh to meet the base of his cock.

John’s mouth watered. Ever since the first time he’d seen Sherlock’s naked body, before he even knew the name, he’d fantasized about taking that cock into his mouth, causing the sinful noises that wafted into his flat. So he dropped to his knees, his hands finding Sherlock’s hips, caressing his arse and thighs. He kissed the ridge of Sherlock’s hipbone, tracing his way over the top, to the hollow inside, and farther until his lips met the crux between thigh and groin. He breathed in, imbibing a scent of pure sex, smiling as Sherlock’s fingers skated over his scalp.

John turned his head, opening his mouth to lay a kiss at the base of Sherlock’s cock, moaning as it twitched against his cheek. Slowly, he worked his way up the side of the shaft, covering it with open-mouthed kisses, savoring the salt of the skin, the wrecked breaths above him, the fingers squeezing and releasing in his hair.

“You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this,” John muttered, running his tongue over Sherlock’s frenulum. And God, it was better than he imagined. He could have never guessed at the little sounds that never made it through the wall or the way his thighs would twitch and tremble under John’s fingers. He couldn’t have speculated how Sherlock would grab at his hair, how fervent his kisses would be.

“I”--Sherlock grunted--”have some idea.” John wrapped his lips over the head of Sherlock’s cock, laying the flat of his against the underside, and Sherlock went weak in the knees, his breath coming in wrecked pants. “You’re not-- Oh God-- You’re not that quiet.”

John chuckled around Sherlock’s cock. He would have been embarrassed if he weren’t in his current position, but somehow, with Sherlock at his mercy, he just found the idea of Sherlock hearing him wank to be insanely hot. His cock throbbed between his thighs, aching for attention, but he found the idea of his own hand to be woefully inadequate. So, with one long slide down and up Sherlock’s cock, John popped off and stood, grabbing Sherlock’s hips to pull their bodies together.

Their mouths met again, kisses growing more sloppy with their peaking arousal, hands roaming, squeezing, prodding. After a moment, John felt himself being pulled down, landing astride Sherlock’s lap. He looked around, blinking the room back into focus to find them on the couch. But he wasn’t able to take stock of the situation before he felt Sherlock’s fingers wrap around both their cocks, squeezing once before releasing them.

John opened his mouth to protest until he saw that Sherlock was simply reaching towards the end table to fetch a bottle of lube.

“Oh, fuck yes,” John huffed as Sherlock squeezed a dollop onto his palm, spreading it over both of them before wrapping his hand around their cocks again. John rolled his hips forward, relishing the slide against rough fingers and silky foreskin. He did it again, watching Sherlock’s face, the way the pleasure shaped his fingers, and he just had to have his mouth on Sherlock’s.

Their lips caressed and John’s fingers tangled in curls as their bodies rolled together, savoring the slow build towards the peak.

“So good,” John muttered, nibbling at Sherlock’s bottom lip. His breath gusted against Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock’s breath mirrored back to him. It wasn’t long before the kisses were abandoned, their lips still close, breath warming each other’s skin, peppered with grunts and moans and curses.

“Fuck,” John huffed, his fingers gripping Sherlock’s biceps. “I’m close. So close.”

Sherlock’s free hand flew to the nape of John’s neck, dragging him down until Sherlock’s lips were against his ear.

“Give it to me,” Sherlock rumbled, the vibrations spreading down John’s body in a wave of warmth. And then John fell over the edge, all his tensions spilling out with his come and his wrecked moans, and a moment later, he felt Sherlock twitch and jerk against him, a fresh wave of warm fluid covering them.

John laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to the crook of his neck. “That was incredible.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock agreed, laying his head on the sofa cushion.

“Can I take you to dinner sometime?” John asked, his lips sliding against the sheen of sweat on Sherlock’s neck.

“We’re doing this rather backwards, aren’t we?’

John shrugged. “Problem.”

Sherlock hummed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still accepting prompts, so if you're interested, drop me a line here or on Tumblr. I'm justacookieofacumberbatch over there as well.


	9. 9 - A Gentleman in Need of an Escort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's date cancels on him, and desperate times call for desperate measures.

John sat in the lobby of a rather posh hotel, petting the leather armrests of his chair. The trousers of his suit were undoubtedly growing more wrinkled with each passing second, but if John stood, he would likely start pacing again.

He really didn’t know how he’d been talked into this, taking a prostitute--no, sorry, escort--to a charity dinner. Because despite Mike’s protestations to the contrary, John didn’t buy for a second that this service primarily catered to people who needed a plus-one for some important. Sure, he’d said, some these dates would end in sex, but that wasn’t what one was paying for.

It all sounded like a lot of legal mumbo jumbo to John. But desperate times and all that. His date had cancelled at the last minute, and in John’s last-ditch grab to replace her, Mike had slipped him the number. Really, if he’d had any other options, he would have jumped at them.

The automatic doors at the front slid open, and in came a tall, lean man with curly hair that was honestly a bit too long. But God, he was striking. His posture spoke to immense self-confidence. His tailored suit hugged every curve just right. And his face, all sharp angles until it came to his lips. Those look soft, kissable.

As the man walked to the front desk, John sank back into his chair and re-focused on the doorway. There was no way John was lucky enough for that one to be his date for the evening.

“John?” asked a voice like a cello from John’s left.

“Yes,” John said, glancing up at the stranger and immediately back to the door. But then his brain caught up with his eyes, processing the sharp cheekbones and long fingers of an extended hand. Perhaps John was that lucky.

He looked back up at the stranger, incredulous.

The stranger thrust his hand in John’s direction. “I’m Sherlock. I believe we have a date.”

“Oh,” John said, wrapping his hand over Sherlock’s, giving it a squeeze. “Yes, we do. Shall we?”

John stood and offered his arm to Sherlock, leading him to a table by the door to a ballroom.

“John Watson,” he said, watching as the woman at the table leafed through paperwork.

“Here we are,” she said as she found his name, but as she glanced at Sherlock, her brows furrowed. “Now, I show that your plus-one is named Mary.”

“Sadly, she couldn’t make it. This is my friend, Sherlock.”

“All right.” Her face regained its pleasant mask. “You’re at table two. Enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you,” John said, grabbing Sherlock’s hand to lead him into the ballroom.

As always, the food was excellent and the company was awful. All through the meal, John looked to the heavens and thanked his lucky stars that Mary had cancelled. Though Sherlock wasn’t the best at making pleasant conversation, he was excellent at whispered commentary. Even through the presentation awarding… someone for… something, Sherlock kept at it, murmuring into John’s ear his speculations on a number of dirty secrets that both the awardee and the presenter had.

John chuckled. “You have quite the imagination.”

“Who’s imagining?”

John turned, nearly bumping Sherlock’s nose with his own. “What are you talking about?”

“I haven’t said anything that I don’t know to be true.”

“But how could you possibly know these things?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “I don’t know. I observe.”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment before a laugh bubbled to the surface. “I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean.”

“It means, I know about our winner’s affair the same way I know you’re a former military doctor who was shot in his left shoulder.”

John’s jaw dropped, and a smile slowly spread on his face. “How could you possibly know that?”

Sherlock picked up his wine glass, and as it hovered near his mouth, he said, “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

But John saw the twinkle in his eye, the shy smile. Sherlock was dying to tell him his secrets.

John smiled. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I have a bottle of Glenlivet Nadurra at home. I’ve been looking for an excuse to open it.”

“More alcohol? Do you think that’s wise?”

John shrugged. “That’s what cabs are for.”

Sherlock ran his thumb back and forth across his bottom lip, considering. “You make an excellent case. Let’s go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will do a part 2.


	10. 10 - Dreaming of Your Bedmate

It started with a breath, a warm puff of hair ruffling the hair at his nape, to wake Sherlock from sleep. He couldn’t even be sure of what it was that woke him at first, only that his eyes had opened to darkness so complete that pinpoints of stars in the single small window looked blinding in comparison. He lay still for a moment, assessing the situation. He was lying on his right side, facing away from the doorway. His body was rather close to the edge of the bed, but that was rather to be expected in a small double bed.

And then another huff of breath, exhaled more forcefully than was usual for a sleeping person, ruffled Sherlock’s hair. So, John was facing the same direction, and judging by the amount of shared body warmth, he was not far away. Maybe a couple of inches.

Sherlock shifted in the bed, just a slight change in the distribution of his weight, just to verify his hypothesis, and John’s arm stretched out, flopping over Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock had a long-held theory that John preferred to sleep with a partner--a comfort from the occasional nightmare--and this certainly supported it.

Sherlock ran a fingernail up the center of John’s palm, checking to see how deep John’s sleep was. He knew enough from occupying the room just below John’s that he tended to be a light sleeper, often shifting positions. But the tickle of his palm only caused John to take a slightly more accelerated breath before settling down again, his arm curling farther around Sherlock’s waist.

John’s body tipped forward, sending his hip and shoulder into direct contact with Sherlock’s, and Sherlock gasped, his eyes going wide.

Because there, nestled against his right buttock, was an erection, a rather sizeable one at that. Sherlock closed his eyes, pressing his lips tight together, and let his hips tip back, just to satisfy his curiosity. He had lived with John for years. He had theories about all the hidden parts of John, physical and psychological. Of course he had theorized the length and girth of his penis.

And it certainly didn’t disappoint because no sooner had Sherlock tilted his hips had John met them, the full length of his cock sliding up Sherlock’s arse until his thighs were pressed tight against it. Sherlock’s breath came out his nose in a rushed, and he struggled to keep the next one at a reasonable pace. He balled his hands into fists and held them by his chest, too curious to see where this was going to risk derailing its progress.

Even with his groin against Sherlock’s arse, John’s hips thrust forward, pressing the underside of his cock to Sherlock buttock, his body turning until it settled between Sherlock’s cheeks. John hummed, his voice vibrating against the base of Sherlock’s skull, and Sherlock bit his lip.

Soon, John’s body was nestled against Sherlock’s from shoulders to thighs, his breath raising goosebumps down Sherlock’s arms, his lips brushing the bottom of Sherlock’s neck. And again, his hips tilted forward, and Sherlock found himself lamenting the four layers of fabric between them.

John’s mouth opened against Sherlock’s spine, something between a huff and a moan escaping, and Sherlock had to admit that his interest was no longer academic. His cock was fighting hard to have a say in this experience.

He tried to hold back, looking inward to catalog the experience rather than letting his body ride the wave, but his traitorous transport would have none of it, constantly reminding Sherlock of its existence. The goosebumps that had now spread to his chest, peaking his nipples, making them sensitive to the point that the shift of Sherlock’s t-shirt sent a bolt of electricity zinging to his cock. And John’s mouth, no longer brushing Sherlock’s skin, was open against his neck, tongue tasting, teeth grazing, lips latching, sucking.

He knew, despite the arousal short circuiting his system, that he should do something to stop this. Surely John was still asleep, and he would probably find sleep-humping his flatmate to be “a bit not good.” And he would most certainly find said flatmate getting off on it to be even worse.

“John,” he whispered, circling his fingers around John’s wrist and giving it a squeeze.

“Sher--” John huffed, his hand snaking under Sherlock’s shirt, fingers tracing up to Sherlock’s chest and down the center of his abdomen. And down. Sherlock trembled from the anticipation, the anxiety, the fear that John would wake up with his hand down Sherlock’s pants and the disgust that would most certainly follow, along with one of his not-gay pronouncements.

“John,” Sherlock said a bit louder, laying his hand over John’s to stop its progress once the fingertips slipped under his waistband.

John’s response was to whine into Sherlock’s hair, his fingers pressing into Sherlock’s stomach as his body undulated, his pace quickening. Oh God, he was going to come against Sherlock’s back, and as much as Sherlock thrilled to the possibility, he still knew that the situation was not ideal.

“John, wake up,” Sherlock said, this time nudging his elbow against John’s side.

John snuffled and stilled, and Sherlock could feel each muscle go rigid, could feel the tick up in John’s heartbeat against his back. John’s fingers pressed and released against Sherlock’s stomach, and with a start, Sherlock pulled his hand away, returning it to its spot by his chest. But John didn’t move his hand away once it was freed.

“Sherlock?” asked John’s bleary voice.

“Yes?”

“Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

Once again, John’s hand tensed against Sherlock’s stomach, but he didn’t pull away. “How long has this been going on?”

Sherlock shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “A few minutes.”

“Oh, God.” John withdrew his hand, likely to rub it over his face, though Sherlock didn’t venture a look. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s”--Sherlock paused--”fine.”

“No it’s not. I molested you in your sleep.”

“Really, John, it’s fine. I”--Sherlock clenched his fists where they were held near his chest, rolling backwards towards John under the auspice of looking at him--”didn’t mind.”

John huffed. “You don’t need to spare my feelings.”

“Have I ever been known to do that?”

John laughed. “No. Not really.”

They lay in silence for a moment, John on his back with Sherlock facing away, his arse nestled to John’s hip.

“So.” John’s fingertips came to rest on Sherlock’s hip. “You mean to say…”

Sherlock swallowed. Oh God, here it came. Better to preempt.

“You needn’t worry,” Sherlock said. “I’m well aware of--oh.”

John rolled to his side, slotting himself behind Sherlock. His lips brushed Sherlock’s nape as he asked, “You were saying.”

“Nothing. It’s not important.” Because John’s arm was back around Sherlock’s waist, sliding up under his shirt, but this time, when his hand slid back down, it circled over Sherlock’s hips, sliding down the back of his pyjama bottoms until his arse was completely exposed.

“Is this OK?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded, biting his lips together lest he make any mortifying sounds.

Sherlock’s cock was still trapped within his clothes while John shuffled his way out of his, and a moment later, John’s bare cock was nestled between Sherlock’s arse cheeks, forcing a huff of air from his lungs. And then John’s hand was on Sherlock’s hip, working its way in as John tilted his hips. He thrust again, and his hand was pulling Sherlock’s waistband out, easing it over Sherlock’s erection until it could bob free.

And then John’s hand wrapped around Sherlock’s cock, and everything else went black. Sherlock couldn’t process the way his body or John’s body was moving, what noises they were making. His ears registered a litany pouring from John’s mouth, but none of the sounds would form into words within Sherlock’s mind. All was the feeling within his groin, the constant build of pressure, the way every sensation within his body only served to push him towards orgasm.

And though his brain railed against the loss of control, his body greeted it like an old friend. He felt warmth pour from his body and paradoxically spread from his groin to the tips of his fingers and toes. His body arched and convulsed, a dissonance of tension and release until only relaxation was left, his body melting into John’s, consciousness quickly evading his grasp.

He was somewhat aware of a cooling wetness against the small of his back, a shift of weight on the bed, something warm being rubbed over his back and stomach. And then John’s reassuring weight returned behind him, and arm curling around his waist.

“You know,” John said. “We are going to need to talk about this in the morning.”

“Dull,” Sherlock replied, drifting off to sleep.


	11. 11 - Looking in on the Mind Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought something sweet and quiet might be nice today.

This was John’s favorite time with Sherlock, in the evening hours, the setting sun casting the flat with a golden glow and Sherlock exploring his mind palace. It happened most days unless he was working a challenging case. Then, he was a mass of frenetic energy ricocheting off the walls more than he was a human being. But here with Sherlock’s wet curls reflecting golden light, his eyes closed, his manicured fingernails tucked under his chin, the whisper of cotton against silk. Here was peace.

John took a sip of his tea and set the cup on the table by his chair, pulling a dog-eared novel from between the cushions. Licking his forefinger to flip to the latest dog ear, John settled in to read. One of the great benefits of Sherlock’s mind palace was that, for at least thirty minutes most evenings, John could read a piece of what Sherlock would call trashy fiction without interruption or belittlement. Hell, if Sherlock didn’t snoop around in John’s chair--which was, admittedly, unlikely--he wouldn’t even know what John read.

But as was often the case, John only made it a few pages before the subtle shifts of Sherlock’s body against the sofa drew his attention. This time it was his toes flexing against the arm of the sofa, a sotto voce groan in his throat.

Holding the novel aloft, John glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. If he hadn’t known better, he might have assumed that Sherlock had quit breathing. In fact, a handful of times, Sherlock had stepped out of his mind palace only to find John’s ear by his mouth and two fingers on his carotid.

And it was only when Sherlock had said, “Really, John. Do you have to be so dramatic?” that John was satisfied.

He chuckled at the thought of those first few weeks as flatmates when they were still growing accustomed to each other’s habits. John had always thought his were unobtrusive--childhood, university, and military ingraining in him how to not live alone. But to hear Sherlock talk, and outside observer would have thought John was the crazy one. Really, how dare he get upset over body parts in the fridge or blood-stained clothes sitting in the washer for two days without being washed?

How many flatmates before John had assumed that Sherlock was a serial killer? Hell, if John hadn’t tagged along on that first case, he may have made the same conclusion. There was a moment there when he almost did anyway.

Sherlock sighed, just an extended exhalation through the nose, really, but it stood out in the relative quiet of the room. Even the constant buzz of London filtering through the windows seemed to fade in these moments.

John watched the minute shifts of Sherlock’s body, listened to rasps of fabric, creaks of the sofa frame. Even disconnected from his body, he couldn’t get comfortable. That in itself wasn’t so uncommon. Sherlock usually took a few minutes to settle in, but he had been deep in palace territory for a good ten minutes. And the movements of his body grew more antsy, the little huffs and sighs that usually dripped from his mouth becoming grunts and whines. John’s brow furrowed, and he chewed his bottom lip as he watched Sherlock, wondering if he should intervene.

It didn’t take long before John couldn’t take it anymore, and he crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the sofa by Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, his hands still tucked under his chin, but instead of relaxed facial muscles, John saw a scowl.

What must he be thinking of to get him so upset? John couldn’t imagine, but if he knew Sherlock, he knew the thoughts would spiral out of control, Sherlock overanalyzing them until whatever it was consumed him, and at best he would come out in a sulk. And now that John was sitting here, he found himself at a loss.

What should he do? The longer he sat here, the worse it would get, and pulling Sherlock from his mind palace was far worse than waking a sleepwalker. John had had the ringing ears and twisted wrists to prove it.

So, John went for the gentle approach. Taking a deep breath, John reached out with both hands and laid them over Sherlock’s forearms. He started with the palms, letting them float gently to Sherlock’s skin, and then bit by bit, he curled his fingers around, giving a small squeeze once everything was settled.

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose, his whole body going stock still before he sank back into the cushions. He stopped grunting. He stopped squirming. His face settled into the neutral expression that it usually held while Sherlock was out. Or in, he supposed. Deep inside.

John stared at the closed eyelids, wondering what was going on behind them. Sherlock was never terribly forthright with his innermost thoughts. He just wasn’t much of a sharer in any aspect of his life, really.

But still, John stared, brushing his thumbs up and down the insides of Sherlock’s forearms. He just looked so serene. Though John had to admit there were times when Sherlock looked more beautiful, these were the moments he seemed most human. When he didn’t cover himself in spines to keep everyone out. And right after, when he blinked himself back into awareness, it was like he was in slow motion, coming out of a daze.

Those few minutes right after Sherlock would wake up--when he was quiet, relaxed, vulnerable--were his favorite and most dreaded minutes of every day. Because those were the minutes he wanted to wrap Sherlock in his arms, run his fingers through hair still disheveled from a shower, kiss the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. He got to see the human underneath the armor, even if just for a bit. He was the only one, and in those few minutes, it was hard not to get overwhelmed with being in that unique position. Of the trust it represented.

John smiled, watching the micro-expressions on Sherlock’s face, and he couldn’t say why he did it, but he twined his fingers in the hair by Sherlock’s temple, ran his thumb over a cheekbone.

Sherlock’s eyes blinked open, his expression unguarded, and he was just so warm and human and beautiful that John just couldn’t have let the day go on without his lips touching Sherlock’s. So, John leaned down, his gaze catching on Sherlock’s, and brushed his lips against Sherlock’s.

He stopped there, just millimeters from Sherlock’s lips, his eyes closed and breath bated, and waited. After a few seconds where Sherlock made no move to pull away or pull closer, John tentatively closed the distance, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s. He stayed there no more than two or three seconds, making it clear that this was no peck, before sitting up. His thumb brushed Sherlock’s cheek one last time before pulling away, and he propped his hand against the back of the sofa.

A smile tugged at the corner of John’s mouth as he watched Sherlock blink. “All right?”

After several more blinks, Sherlock nodded. “All right.”

“Do you need to go back into your mind palace?”

Sherlock nodded. “I think that would be a good idea.”

“All right.” John squeezed Sherlock’s elbow as he stood. “I’ll be here when you’re finished.”


	12. 12 - Taking Care of an Old Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little Jolto angst.

Bill Murray was a right bastard. No, that was wrong. James Sholto was a right bastard. Bill might have been remiss in saying something to John about Sholto’s injuries, but Sholto should have told John himself. Sure, John had wondered why his emails had gone unanswered for months, but he’d figured Sholto was deployed. Plus, he’d just received one not a week ago that made no mention of what happened to him. It was only the most perfunctory of condolences for John’s loss.

 

John was angry

 

And now, here he was jamming his finger into the buzzer at Sholto’s home, the entire trip over fueled by hurt and rage. After all they’d been through, he couldn’t send John an email or a text? Pick up a damn phone? Write a letter? Facebook? Carrier pigeon?

 

As the door opened, John took a breath to give Sholto the what for, but the man at the door was not Sholto. He was military, a lance corporal, though he wasn’t someone John recognized. Was he a friend of Sholto? As much as he was loath to admit it, John doubted that was what this man was. Sholto didn’t have friends. Not really. Not that John knew of anyway, but then again, who knew what the man was keeping from him.

 

John took a step back. “Is Major Sholto here?”

 

“Identification, please.”

 

As John pulled his wallet from his back pocket and fetched his old military ID, he asked, “What’s going on here?”

 

“Major Sholto has been assigned a security detail.” He handed the ID back to John. “Give me a moment.”

 

The soldier closed the door, and John swallowed, clearing his throat of the organs that were trying to jump out of it. Why did he need a security detail? Bill hadn’t told John much, just that Sholto was invalided out because of a combat injury. And John couldn’t imagine what Sholto could have done to warrant such measures. Unsociable or not, John had never been under a better leader than Sholto.

 

The lance corporal returned. “Come in, and stand by the door. I need to check you for weapons.”

 

“All right.” John stepped through the door and stopped a few feet inside, raising his arms and spreading his feet for a pat down.

 

As the soldier searched John, John asked, “Why does Major Sholto need a security detail?”

 

“You haven’t heard? It’s been in the papers.”

 

John cleared his throat, blinking several times. “I haven’t been reading the paper much.”

 

“You’re clear. Major Sholto is up the stairs, first door on your left.”

 

John nodded. “Thank you.”

 

Taking a deep breath, John climbed the stairs, trying not to ponder what he would find on the other side of the door. He stopped in front of the indicated door and knocked.

 

“Come in,” came Sholto’s voice, rough, quiet, so different from his usual commanding tone and even from the private one he used alone with John.

 

John steeled himself before opening the door, but the facade split when John saw him. He was in his pyjamas, all of the visible skin on his left side covered in angry red scars. He stood in front of an arm chair, but he leaned heavily on a cane in his left hand. If John had to guess from his appearance, Sholto was probably released from the hospital only a few days ago. Which was likely the same day he emailed John. And now John felt like a complete prick.

 

He nodded to Sholto from across the room. “Morning, Major.”

 

“Watson.”

 

“A friend of mine told me you got hurt.”

 

“He was right.”

 

“Yeah.” John peered out the window, shoving his hands in his jacket pocket. “I wish you had told me.”

 

“I’m sure you’ve read all about it.” Sholto eased himself down into the chair and set aside his cane.

 

John shifted on his feet. “No, I’ve”--he cleared his throat--”I’ve been avoiding the papers.”

 

“Right. I’m sorry.”

 

“Thanks.” John sat at the corner of Sholto’s bed. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it was the same bed he’d had in Tidworth.

 

“Were you together long?”

 

“We weren’t”--John picked at the cuticle on his thumb. “No.”

 

Sholto nodded.

 

“He isn’t-- He wasn’t what they say he was.”

 

“I believe you.”

 

John laughed wryly, shaking his head. “You’re the only one.”

 

Sholto nodded, and their eyes met. John stared even as he blanched under the scrutiny, remembering furtive kisses in the desert, careful flirting, secret trysts. It all seemed so simple now. As if they were two different people. And he longed to recapture it, even if just for a few minutes.

 

“Will you tell me what happened?” John asked.

 

“No.” Sholto shifted in his seat, a grimace momentarily marring his features. “Will you?”

 

Another inappropriate chuckle rose from John’s throat. “No.”

 

The corner of Sholto’s mouth drew up, his eyes softening, and as John watched, he rose from the chair, limping over to the bed and sitting next to John. Watching out the window, he laid his right hand over John’s left, giving it a squeeze, and John rotated it in Sholto’s grip until their palms could press together. He watched their hands pressed together, his own thumb massaging between Sholto’s thumb and forefinger.

 

He wanted to know what happened. He wanted to ask Sholto a thousand questions. Was anyone else injured? How long ago did it happen? Was it an IED? Why did he need a security detail? But John didn’t need Sholto’s explicit refusal to know that he was unwilling to talk about it.

 

So, to keep himself from talking about it, to keep himself from having to talk about Sherlock, he leaned over, pressing a tentative kiss to Sholto’s jaw, resting his nose there, and breathing in the scent of him. But he didn’t smell like himself. He smelled like surgical soap and body odor, and not the heady, musky smell of exertion. It was the smell of someone who hadn’t been able to properly bathe himself--or maybe hadn’t wanted to--and it made John’s heart sink all the way down to his toes.

 

Sholto took a shaky breath.

 

“Can you get your wounds wet yet?”

 

“Yes.” Sholto turned his head, and John pulled his back enough to look into Sholto’s eyes. “John, I know what you’re thinking--”

 

“That you stink?”

 

Sholto chuckled, his gaze darting down to John’s mouth and back to his eyes again. He shifted in his seat until he could fully face John, and then both his hands cupped John’s cheeks. John leaned in against the pressure of Sholto’s palms as Sholto leaned down, pressing their lips together. John balanced his fingertips on Sholto’s elbows, relaxing into the kiss. It was just a simple press of lips, but it was the best John had felt since his last phone call with Sherlock. For a moment, it could just fade into the background, but as Sholto pulled back, it all came flooding back.

 

John surged forward, capturing Sholto’s mouth, tugging him back into their embrace with his lips. He nibbled at the right side of Sholto’s mouth, careful to avoid scraping stubble against scars. And then Sholto’s mouth opened, his tongue pressed into John’s mouth, and it was as if no time had passed. He still kissed just as John remembered, hard insistence or slow languidity, and nothing in between. John’s head spun. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he gripped them into the front of Sholto’s t-shirt.

 

After a moment, they broke apart, panting breaths against each other’s faces, but John couldn’t stay away, tilting his chin up until their lips met again. He was getting lost there, forgetting the outside world, and he thrilled to it. All that existed were Sholto’s lips against his, the feel of cotton under his fingers, Sholto’s hands roaming up his arms, over his shoulders. Finally, Sholto’s palms landed at the center of John’s chest and pushed him back until John was flat on his back on the bed, Sholto’s comforting weight on top of him.

 

John’s hands found Sholto’s face, one hand coming into contact with smooth skin, the other with ridge scar tissue. “Is this OK?” he asked, skating his fingertips over the marred skin.

 

Sholto nodded. “It doesn’t hurt.”

 

And then their mouths were together again, the tenacious pressure of Sholto’s lips and tongue overwhelming John’s senses, making him arch into Sholto’s body. How did this man know so well how to literally sweep John off his feet? Make him forget all the terrible shit that surrounded them? Reduce John’s perception until everything was Sholto and the way he made John feel?

 

Sholto’s hands slipped under the hem of John’s shirt, and John gasped, suddenly gripped with the terror of revealing his scar. But, he was a soldier, so he gripped the bottom of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving it on display.

 

Sholto’s gaze caught there, and his fingertips ran over it for a moment before his head dipped, and he pressed his lips to the scar. John took a shaky breath, covering his face with his hands, his legs spreading and his back arching off the bed. God, it was intimate, too intimate, but it felt amazing.

 

“James,” John groaned, his hands flying to the duvet, gathering up the fabric in his fists.

 

At that, Sholto’s lips met John’s again, and John blindly followed, tangling his tongue with Sholto’s, tangling his fingers in Sholto’s hair, tangling their legs together. He pressed up his hips, and Sholto met them with a grunt. He did it again, relishing the barely contained sounds it elicited.

 

“John,” Sholto whispered against John’s mouth, their bodies rocking together. “I’ve missed you.”

 

John responded by surging up to meet Sholto’s mouth, putting every emotion he had into that kiss. He slid his hand down Sholto’s side, over his hip, and tucked it into Sholto’s waistband.

 

As John’s fingertips touched the skin near the base of his cock, Sholto cried out, burying his face in John’s shoulder, rocking into his touch. John traced the underside of Shotlo’s cock, savoring the heat against his hand, and finally wrapped his hand around it. Sholto thrust into the circle of John’s fingers, his lips and teeth exploring John’s neck, but suddenly it felt so insufficient. He needed more contact, more skin against skin.

 

He withdrew his hand from Sholto’s pants and instead tugged on Sholto’s shirt. Sholto’s hand flew down to grab one of John’s holding it in place, and John froze. After a moment, Sholto came up on his elbow, looking down into John’s face, and with a nod, he let go of John’s hand. John pulled up the hem, carefully easing the shirt over Sholto’s head and off his arms.

 

John drew in a sharp breath, but he refused to linger on the network of scars criss-crossing Sholto’s chest. Instead, he hooked his thumbs into the sides of Sholto’s pyjama bottoms, easing them and his pants down his hips until his cock was free. Then, he unzipped his own trousers and pushed them down as well as Sholto’s lips traced over his temple and ear, raising goosebumps on the back of his neck. And as John turned to meet Sholto’s mouth, his hands slid around to Sholto’s arse, pressing their groins together, their cocks sliding against each other.

 

John sighed--that was more like it--and he reached in between them to wrap his hand around both their cocks. The thrust against each other, their naked chests pressed together, their mouths entangled, catching each other’s moans and gasps and grunts. John could have stayed that way forever. He didn’t want it to end, but he could feel the tension building in his groin, the imperative of orgasm slowly overwhelming his other desires.

 

“I’m close,” he muttered against Sholto’s mouth.

 

“Wait for me,” Sholto said before capturing John’s mouth, and John groaned his assent.

 

Sholto’s arms wrapped around John’s back, pulling his torso off the bed until John had to use his free hand to keep himself from falling. But God, their bodies were pressed so tight together, Sholto’s sounds so blindingly erotic, his grip so sure. John’s body trembled, his thighs shaking from the effort of holding himself, and he was sure that he couldn’t hold back any longer. He was going to come. He was going to come so hard.

 

“I’m coming,” Sholto growled, and John groaned, spilling over the edge himself. His back hunched as his body convulsed, and pleasure surged from him until he collapsed, his back arched over Sholto’s arm.

 

Slowly, Sholto eased his arm out from under John and sat beside him on the bed, grabbing his t-shirt and pulling it over his sticky torso. John watched him, the tension that had just burst from his body quickly returning.

 

He sat up, tucking himself away. “All right?”

 

Sholto nodded, but he said, “We shouldn’t have done that.”

 

“A little early for guilt, isn’t it?” John smiled, squeezing Sholto’s knee, but Sholto just stood and handed John his shirt.

 

“You should go.”

 

John’s eyes went wide, his eyebrows drawing up before he scoffed. “You must be joking.”

 

“No. I can’t put you in this position.”

 

John stared waiting for the punchline, but it didn’t come. His bewildered expression closed, anger welling in his gut. He threw his shirt over his head. He would have punched Sholto if there hadn’t been a bored soldier at the bottom of the stairs.

 

“Always thinking you know what’s best for me,” John muttered.

 

“John--”

 

“Don’t bother.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although this relies on the backstory of Wherever Destiny Takes Me, it shouldn't be considered a companion piece.


	13. 13 - A Rainy Night and a Bus Stop

The rain streaming down the windshield turned the streetlamps into blurry halos, the wipers only clearing the image for a moment before water smudged the image again. But even through the downpour, John recognized him. He was hard to miss, illuminated in purples and oranges by the backlit advert next to him. Despite taking shelter under the awning of a bus stop, he was soaked to the bone. His dark curls plastered to his forehead, and his white t-shirt clung to his torso, his jacket doing little to keep it dry. John imagined that if he were to have a clearer view, he might even see the shadow of areolae and contracted peaks of nipples through the fabric.

The man shivered, and John felt a spike of guilt stab right through his gut. He saw this bloke nearly every day on his way from work to the tube station home. John knew nothing about him besides the guess he’d made at the man’s profession. If the way he dressed and the way he looked at John were any indication. John had noticed the newcomer to his commute home a few months ago and had first made eye contact a few weeks after that. It was purely by accident, but the way the man bit his lip and looked John up and down had stuck with him.

For a long time, John avoided the stranger’s gaze, but he was drawn back. At first, it was only occasional, a quick glance over to see if the stranger was looking, maybe a snag of eye contact, and then on home. But as the weeks passed, John found his gaze landing on the man more and more often until it was an everyday occurrence, their own little routine.

John wondered if the man noticed his absence today. He was only driving because he had a blind date to get to; otherwise, he would have been walking along his regular route, collar turned up against the rain--he never could remember an umbrella. He may have even taken shelter in the same bus stop, struck up a conversation. Maybe he’d have shivered from the cold, gotten an offer of a price to keep him warm.

John pulled over and rolled down his passenger-side window.

The stranger bent down in his spot to get a clear view through the window, the back of his shorts riding up.

John swallowed, croaking, “Can I offer you a ride?”

Without a verbal answer, the man strode over to John’s car and climbed in, the water from his body soaking into the passenger seat.

“Where to?” John asked as he merged back into traffic.

“Wherever you want, daddy.”

John shivered, biting his lip to keep from commenting on the moniker. “That’s really not what I’m here for.”

“Really. Not your kink? Are you certain? I’m never wrong.”

“No. It’s not--” John cleared his throat. “That’s not what I meant. I was only-- You looked cold.”

The man scoffed. “Bringing the poor boy in from the cold? How magnanimous of you, doctor.”

“No,” John insisted. “You don’t-- It’s not-- Really, it’s not like--”

“I see.” The man chuckled. “So you’re not harboring the fantasy of rescuing me from the cold and hoping I’ll be so grateful that I throw you a freebie.”

John opened his mouth to make some indignant retort, but he stopped himself, gripping the steering wheel. “Do you negotiate with all your clients like this?”

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. I’m so glad you stopped pretending.”

“Pretending?” John glanced at the man from the corner of his eye.

He smirked. “That it’s merely a coincidence that of all the people getting soaked on that street, you chose to offer a ride to the man you’ve been ogling every day for the past month.”

“To be fair, you’ve been ogling back.”

“That’s part of my job.” At John’s furrowed brow, he continued, “It’s called marketing.”

“Aren’t you just the young entrepreneur?”

The man gestured down at himself, easing himself down in the seat. “What else would you call this?”

“Prostitution.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Semantics.”

“You’re a bit of a smart arse, you know.”

“I’m well aware.” The man smirked.

John chuckled.

“I need someone to show me how to behave properly.”

John’s chuckle got caught in his throat. At the stranger’s words, an image popped into John’s head of the man spread over his knees, his bare arse red and sore under John’s hands, erection trapped against John’s thigh, and that deep voice keening, _I’m sorry, daddy_. John squeezed his thighs together and shifted in his seat, an involuntary breath huffing from his nose.

The stranger just stared. And smiled. He looked so self-satisfied that John wanted to wipe that smirk off his face.

“What’s your name?” John murmured, his voice nearly drowned out by the rhythmic beat of the windshield wipers.

“Sherlock.”

“How much for the night, Sherlock?” John glanced into Sherlock’s eyes before humiliation and desire not to crash his car forced his gaze back to the road.

“Two hundred quid.”

John cleared his throat. “You don’t charge enough.”

Sherlock shrugged, leaning against the center console. “Maybe I’m giving you a special rate.”

Despite his mind’s continued insistence that this whole thing was crazy, John reached across to trail his fingertips up Sherlock’s arm. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“Maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one will have a part 2 as well.
> 
> I believe that makes three porny sequels I owe you guys. What can I say? I just like writing the lead-up so much.


	14. 14 - A Proper Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a sequel to [chapter 3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4248345/chapters/9651813). Barista!Sherlock & Sugardaddy!John

Engrossed in the task of dismantling the espresso maker, Sherlock almost missed the three raps against the front door to the shop.

“We’re closed. Piss o--” he started to say before his gaze caught on the man behind the door. Finally. Sherlock was beginning to believe that he had been blown off. He held up one finger and raised his eyebrows before going back to his task. Pulling the last few parts from the machine and dropping them to soak, he wiped his hands on his apron. Pushing off on one hand, he leapt over the counter, chuckling to himself at John’s shocked expression.

He unlocked the door and opened it, blocking the entrance with his body. “You’re late.”

“I thought I’d give you some time to close up.”

Sherlock looked him up and down. Same suit, but different shirt and tie. Brushed his teeth. Shifting posture.

“No, you didn’t.” Sherlock stepped away from the door, letting it go.

John caught the door and came in. “What are you talking about?”

“I must say, I’m flattered, but you needn’t have bothered.” Sherlock jumped back over the counter.

John stared with something between a gape and a smile. “I don’t follow.”

“You were nervous and felt the need to make a few last minute adjustments. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” His eyelids dropped and a smile threatened the corner of his mouth as he opened the cash drawer.

“I’m not ash-- How did you know that?” John crossed the shop to lean on the counter across from Sherlock.

The smile’s threat grew stronger. “The same way I know you’re a former army doctor.”

The expressions on John’s face shifted so rapidly that Sherlock had a tough time getting a read on them. “Okay, that’s a bit scary. Have we met before? I can’t believe I would have forgotten you.”

The smile was winning. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, and he felt the heat of blood in his cheeks. “No, we haven’t met before. If you’ll excuse me, I have to count down the register.”

John followed Sherlock to the office, walking through the gap in the counter and propping himself in the doorway. “So how did you know that?”

Sherlock set down the drawer, watching John from the corner of his eye. Why did they always have to know? Why couldn’t they just be impressed? Because this was the part where he got called a freak, occasionally punched in the nose, though John didn’t seem the type. Sherlock’s heart beat sped, and he took a deep breath to contain it.

“Though your hair is short by civilian standards, you fuss with it often--pushing it back from your forehead, scratching your nape. So you’re used to a shorter haircut. Pair that with your perfect posture and precise gait, and we have military. Also, you’re standing at parade rest right now.”

John dropped his arms to his side.

“But you wouldn’t let your hair grow that long if you were still in the military. Plus, though you are obviously physically fit, it is also obvious that you are not in the same shape that you used to be. So, former military. Now, your hands.”

John held his hands in front of himself, turning them over, and Sherlock grabbed one, holding it on display.

“Your nails are short and smooth, well maintained, but the skin on your hands is a wreck. Red and cracked at the heels and overall quite dry, though you lotion them often.” He looked up at John. “Switch to a water-based lotion. You need something that will absorb into your skin quickly. You’re just washing this one away.” He returned to John’s hand, smoothing his thumbs over the back.

John drew in a sharp breath.

“So, you wash your hands often, but the expense and wear of your suit suggests that you make quite a good living. Not food service, then, and not nursing. Therefore, doctor. Surgeon to be more precise.”

Sherlock dropped John’s hand, and without looking at him, dropped into the rolling chair in front of the desk, swiveling to face the cash drawer. He counted through two slots of notes to the tune of John’s silence, his nerves ratcheting up with each passing second, but just before he reached for the third, he was knocked off balance, his body swaying to the side as his chair spun.

He had time only to register John’s hands gripping the sides of his chair before those hands were cupping his face and John’s lips were on his. Sherlock winced at the shock of it, his head thumping on the frame of the chair back, and John’s hands flew from Sherlock’s face as if he were a hot potato. But, before John could pull completely away, Sherlock surged forward, grabbing John’s wrists and pulling them to his chest. The backs of John’s hands pressed to the center of Sherlock’s chest, the thumps of Sherlock’s heartbeat amplified against them.

Sherlock’s gaze flicked to John’s eyes, then to his lips, and John licked them. Sherlock’s heart, already loud in his ears, pumped impossibly faster.

He swallowed, eyes still fixed to John’s mouth. “That’s not how people normally react.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” John began to pull away. “I just--”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted, pulling John towards him but making the chair roll forward instead. “No, that was… good.”

John nodded, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Good.”

Sherlock pulled John’s hands down his chest to his stomach, relishing the feel of the nubs of knuckles rolling against his breastbone, tickling at the softer flesh below. He stretched up and forward, his eyelids drooping though another surge of adrenaline made him gasp. John hovered just out of reach, his breath warming Sherlock’s cheek, and as he licked his bottom lip, the tip of his tongue skimmed Sherlock’s cupid’s bow.

“Do it again,” Sherlock murmured, and with a groan, John closed the distance.

In that moment, Sherlock made an unexpected deduction. John liked to take his time, which was both thrilling and infuriating. He started soft, barely a brush of lips, but when Sherlock tried to deepen it, John pulled back, only dipping forward when Sherlock relaxed. Then it was a press of lips, a tongue tracing along the bow of Sherlock’s upper lip, John’s bottom lip nestled between Sherlock’s. But, when Sherlock opened his mouth to nibble at it, John pulled back again, smiling at Sherlock’s groan of disappointment before diving back in.

Finally, their mouths met, open and searching, and it was only when Sherlock felt a tug against them that he realized he still held John’s wrists. Once Sherlock released them, John’s hands snaked into his hair raising goosebumps on his scalp and down his spine. John’s mouth was a revelation; he used it with such skill and sensitivity, drawing sounds out of Sherlock like a musical instrument. But even so, with John’s hands in his hair, Sherlock couldn’t help his head from falling back into them, his lips breaking from John. He hummed as John’s thumbs circled his temples.

“God,” John whispered, brushing his lips against Sherlock’s jawline. “You’re incredible.”

A grunt escaped Sherlock’s lips at that, and despite himself, a flush spread from his chest, heating his neck and pooling in his groin. A distant thought occurred that perhaps he should feel embarrassed to be putty in a stranger’s hands, but he deleted it. Anything that would distract from the enjoyment of deft fingers in his hair and warm mouth and clever tongue working their way down his neck was entirely unwelcome at this juncture.

Quite of their own volition, Sherlock’s hand slid up John’s torso, the cotton of his shirt crisp under Sherlock’s palms, and over his shoulders, pushing aside the suit jacket as they continued their path down John’s arms. Sherlock huffed at the loss of the fingers in his hair as the arms in his hands rose and fell, shaking John’s jacket free.

The fingers returned to Sherlock’s hair, and he blindly sought John’s mouth as his thumbs traced the delineations of John’s bicep. It flexed under Sherlock’s hand, and he couldn’t suppress a chuckle even as John’s mouth found his. As they kissed, John’s hands slid down from Sherlock’s hair to his neck, and Sherlock mourned the loss until those same hands continued their path to his chest, palms skating over Sherlock’s nipples making him gasp and squirm in his chair. The hands moved out, pressing down Sherlock’s flanks to his hips.

Next, John hooked his fingers into Sherlock’s belt loops and gave them a tug. Sherlock’s brow furrowed before realization dawned, and he stood, careful not to break the kiss, only to find the backs of his thighs pressed against the desk. And still John pressed forward, his hands roaming over Sherlock’s back, until Sherlock’s arse thunked against the table, his knees spreading to accommodate John’s body.

John’s thumb traced Sherlock’s bottom lip, and Sherlock finally opened his eyes. John watched under hooded lids as Sherlock’s mouth dragged under his thumb. His lips were flushed red, his pupils blown, his breathing ragged, and Sherlock imagined he looked much the same. John’s free hand slid under Sherlock’s knee, pulling it up and ever-so-subtly towards himself.

“Is this all right? Am I going to fast?”

By way of answer, Sherlock dipped his head and snatched the first knuckle of John’s thumb between his teeth. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his lips around it and released his bite. He explored the pad of it with his tongue, pressing the flat of it to John’s fingerprint, the tip to a small callous at the inside of his knuckle. When he reached the tip, he flicked his tongue against it, and John shivered against him.

“Clear enough?” Sherlock asked as he let the thumb drop from his mouth.

“Oh God, yes.”

Gripping Sherlock’s nape, John crashed their mouths together, the hand underneath Sherlock’s knee tugging him forward until their groins met. Sherlock’s thighs pressed to John’s hips, and he could feel John’s erection press against his perineum. It felt big, rather impressive really, and Sherlock shuddered, tipping his hips against it.

John broke the kiss with a huff, but he kept his grip on Sherlock’s nape and knee, keeping their bodies pressed together and their faces forehead to forehead. At first, his eyes looked down at Sherlock’s lips or body--he couldn’t tell--but as soon as his hips rolled forward, his gaze snapped to Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock bit his bottom lip to keep his sounds in and closed his eyes against John’s intense scrutiny.

As their bodies rolled together, Sherlock took in each individual detail, cataloging each. He was going to want to remember this. The way John’s breath felt against his face, the minty smell of it mixing with the coffee odor of Sherlock. John’s fingers on his nape, under his knee, squeezing and releasing with each thrust. The sounds of their trousers rasping together. And the hidden cock caressing him through too many layers.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to know. So, he reached between them, easing open the top button of John’s trousers and pulling down the zip, inspiring a litany of curses. Sherlock shuddered. He could listen to John talk like that all night.

Finally, Sherlock slid his hand past the waistband of John’s pants and found the silken skin of his cock.

“Fuck,” John huffed, his head falling back, and Sherlock pressed his nose to John’s Adam’s apple. Here he could smell the musk of sweat and sex mixed with expensive cologne.

Sherlock traced his fingertips over John’s cock, just getting a feel for the size and shape of it, and it did not disappoint. It fit perfectly in his hand, long and straight, and it probably looked as beautiful as it felt.

Using one hand to hook under John’s waistband and pull it aside, Sherlock pulled out John’s cock with the other. The head peeked from the foreskin, pre-ejaculate welling at the tip, and Sherlock’s mouth watered. Without dropping from his position on the desk, Sherlock leaned down and licked it away, swirling his tongue around the head before drawing the head into his mouth, pushing back the foreskin with his lips. He spread the thick saltiness on his tongue before venturing for another taste, exploring the texture of the frenulum, flicking his tongue against the slit.

“God.” John shuddered, falling forward and out of Sherlock’s mouth. But before Sherlock could re-capture it, John pushed up on his shoulders.

“Is something wrong?” Sherlock asked as he sat up.

“God, no.” John reached for Sherlock’s trousers, ripping them open and then reaching his hands into the back of Sherlock’s pants, pushing them down his arse until it was bare against the desk. Then he worked his way to the front until Sherlock’s cock bobbed free. He let the pants and trousers fall to Sherlock’s ankles and stepped over them, trapping himself between Sherlock’s thighs. Their cocks slid together, making Sherlock and John both shudder.

“Let me see your hand,” John said, and Sherlock held it palm up before him. John guided it down to their cocks and wrapped it around both of them. “I don’t suppose you have any lube in here.”

“No.” So Sherlock spit into his hand, spreading it around his palm before wrapping his hand around them both.

“Oh fuck,” John whispered as his head fell against Sherlock’s shoulder, his hips pulsing forwards, small slides of his cock against Sherlock’s, and Sherlock stroked them both. “I’m not going to last long.”

Sherlock thrust against John, both their cocks sliding through Sherlock’s hand. It was perfect. Slick and sticky. Rough and smooth. Soft and hard. John needn’t have worried because Sherlock was nearing orgasm as well, his hand flying over both of them, desperate keens leaking from him with each breath.

“That’s it,” John whispered, wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s nape. “I’ve got you. Come for me.”

Sherlock was on the precipice, his body teetering towards the fall.

“Come for me, love.”

Sherlock’s cock pulsed and jerked against his hand, soiling his t-shirt, and John’s followed soon after, milking every last drop from Sherlock’s orgasm.

Sherlock collapsed back on the desk, a telephone pillowing his head, a stack of paperwork under his back. As his breathing returned to normal, he let out a long sigh, running his fingertips over the mess on his shirt.

“I really did have plans to take you out.”

Sherlock smiled. “Next time.”

John nodded, smiling back at him. “Next time.”


	15. 15 - An Escort in Need of a Gentleman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of chapter 9, [A Gentleman in Need of an Escort](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4248345/chapters/9782616).

"Can I offer you a couple fingers?" John asked as he pulled down two glasses.

"That sounds lovely." Sherlock shucked the suit jacket from his shoulders, folding it vertically down the middle before draping it over the back of the sofa.

John ripped the foil from the top of the bottle of scotch and poured them each a measure as Sherlock took stock of the room, lingering at a bookcase near the sofa.

He crossed the room that hand a glass to Sherlock. "You can see my whole life story from those, can't you?"

Sherlock hummed, taking a bored sip of scotch. "I don't need it the know this is your first time hiring an escort."

"Oh? How’s that?” John drew his glass to his mouth.

“If you had, you would have made a move by now.”

John stopped before he could choke on his sip. “I was under the impression that sex wasn’t a part of this.”

Sherlock cocked his head, shrugging one shoulder. “Not a mandatory part.”

John swirled the glass in his hand, watching the scotch eddy inside. “I don’t know how I feel about that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Boring.”

“Sorry?”

“If I were here for free, would you try to have sex with me?”

John opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock interrupted.

“Don’t lie.”

“All right. Yes, I would.”

Sherlock took John’s glass and set them both on an end table. “Which way to the bedroom?”

John pointed down the hall. “Don’t you want to relax and talk for a bit first?”

But Sherlock was already halfway down the hall. Somehow, he managed to bypass John’s office and the loo to go straight for the bedroom. How did he know which room it was? But John didn’t focus on that for too long. He was too busy thanking his lucky stars that the housekeeper had been in earlier in the day. So, the bed had fresh linens and was actually quite clean, though he wondered why he was so concerned with impressing someone whom he would probably never see again. Then again, Sherlock was pulling the shirt from his shoulders, and his back was something delectable, smattered with moles and freckles that John wanted to play connect the dots with.

He shrugged. What was stopping him?

So, he stepped up behind Sherlock, smoothing his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders and down his arms. Sherlock stilled with his fingers poised at the open button of his trousers and peered over his shoulder in time to see John dip to kiss his spine between his shoulder blades. The skin was smooth, soft; the only imperfection--if one could call it that--under his lips and tongue was the slight rise of a mole.

As the tip of John’s tongue touched the spot, Sherlock gasped, his shoulder blades pulling together. John smiled against Sherlock’s skin and mouthed his way down Sherlock’s back, stopping at another mole just below his ribs, grazing his top teeth against the ridge created by the bone. Sherlock rooted to the spot. He made no further move to undress, just rocked back against John’s mouth.

With a hum of contentment, John dropped his hands from Sherlock’s arms to slide up and down his flanks. And God, the sounds Sherlock made. It must have been an act. It had to be, but it was a great one. Flawless. Perfect. He didn’t resort to wanton moans that John would have expected. Instead, it was a quiet huff, a gasp, a shudder. Goosebumps rose on his sides, and when John dragged his nails down Sherlock’s sides, Sherlock’s groan sent a shiver through John’s body.

John dropped to his knees, nipping at the crest of Sherlock’s hipbone before circling his hands until the met at the front of Sherlock’s abdomen. Sherlock’s hands were still poised at his flies, and John chuckled as he pushed the hands aside to drag down the zip himself. He let his knuckles brush against Sherlock’s cock as his hands came up to hook into the waistband of Sherlock’s pants, and even as his lips and tongue explored the dimples peeking out of the fabric above Sherlock’s arse, he moaned. The man was hard as rock.

That, he didn’t expect, nor did he expect the shaky breath that came with the brush of knuckles. He pushed down Sherlock’s pants and trousers with the intention of turning Sherlock to face him, but God, that arse.

“Fuck,” John breathed. “Is there any part of you that isn’t bloody gorgeous?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, but John didn’t miss the way his head dropped or the red flush creeping down his neck. John felt a surge of affection rise, but he pushed it down, clearing his throat and refocusing his attention on Sherlock’s arse. He couldn’t get too attached, no matter how lovely this man was, no matter how much fun he was having. He couldn’t afford to pay for these services often.

So, he bit Sherlock on the bum. Just a graze of teeth and a little pinch really, but Sherlock jumped, yelping.

John pulled back, his hands bracketing Sherlock’s hips. “Not good?”

“Do it again,” Sherlock rumbled, and with a smile, John complied, giving Sherlock a matching bite on the other cheek. He swept his thumbs in, tracing the crux between arse and thigh and following it up between the cheeks, parting them ever so slightly, giving himself just the barest hint of what lay beneath. He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s coccyx, and as his tongue dipped down, wriggling into Sherlock’s cleft, Sherlock grunted, pushing his hips back against John’s tongue.

“Are you this sensitive, or am I that talented?”

Sherlock chuckled, though the levity of it was ruined by it’s breathy, desperate tone. “A bit of both, I believe.”

John hummed at the hedged compliment, actually believing it. The praise was too faint to be fake, but he was bolstered by it nonetheless.

“I’d like you to get face down on the bed. All right?”

A breath gusted from Sherlock’s mouth, vaguely forming an ‘SH’ sound before he toed off his shoes and stepped out of the rest of his clothes. John watched as Sherlock rushed for the bed, movements somehow lithe and captivating even in their haste. And the sight of him lying on his stomach, legs spread, his testicles only hinting at the cock beneath. God. John wanted to remember that for the rest of his life.

His heart racing and hands shaking, he crawled behind Sherlock on the bed, slipping a pillow under Sherlock’s hips, tipping them up. His arse on display, Sherlock writhed, spreading his legs even farther, opening himself for John, the furled bud of his opening beckoning to John.

John licked Sherlock, wriggling his tongue between bollocks and sliding it up perineum, teasing at his hole before completing its path at the crest of buttocks. He made the trip again. And again, taking in the tiny huffs of breath above him, the minute tip of the hips. So reserved, and yet, John thrilled to it. Every sound appeared involuntary, and John would do anything to hear them continue.

Finally, his tongue circled Sherlock’s core, tasting only soap and the faint musk of sex.

“Oh God,” he breathed, resting his cheek against Sherlock’s buttock. There was more to that thought, but he failed to complete it in favor of diving back in, pressing his lips fully to the skin around Sherlock’s anus, teasing and probing at it with his tongue. _Yeah_ , he thought, listening to Sherlock’s soft noises grow louder, _you like that, don’t you?_

John’s cock throbbed within his trousers, and he suddenly couldn’t understand in what universe he could possibly still be wearing his clothes. But then, a picture of him, still in his suit, fucking a bare and desperate Sherlock just could not be shaken. So, still licking and teasing at Sherlock’s arse, John eased open his trousers, shimmying his pants down his hips enough to free his cock, and at the first contact of his cock against the bedclothes, he shuddered.

“I want to fuck you,” John said, wetting his finger with saliva and pressing it into Sherlock. He met little resistance, and God, but wasn’t that hot.

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, rocking back against John’s finger.

John shot upright before leaning across the bed to reach the bedside table, fetching lube and a condom. He spread the lube on two fingers, and without further preamble, slid them into Sherlock. They slipped past the first sphincter easily, but he had to ease them in any further, making Sherlock keen and writhe, pushing himself towards John’s hand.

John slid his fingers in and out a few times, stroking Sherlock’s prostate with each slide. “God, you’re so ready, aren’t you?”

“Yes, John. God, just do it.” Somehow, even through the impatient agitation, the words were a desperate plea rather than a command, and who was John to deny such a needy request?

So, John rolled on a condom and slicked himself, letting his cock tease and slide over Sherlock’s entrance before pressing forward. He pushed in slowly in one long stroke, and Sherlock groaned through the whole thing, more a sound of relief than anything else. Finally, John’s groin settled against Sherlock’s arse, and he let his body drape over Sherlock’s back.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hips pressing involuntarily forward. “You’re so tight. So good.”

Though John strained to keep his movements contained, concentrate on the comfort and pleasure of the man beneath him, Sherlock would not have it. He canted his hips forwards and thrust them back again, and from there it was a lost cause. John got lost in the movement, the heat, the wetness, the squeeze. He could only guess what his body was doing or even whether the sounds filling the room came from him or Sherlock or both. All he knew was that this was fucking amazing, and he was about to break into a thousand tiny pieces.

Somehow, though his orgasm zinged through him like a bolt of electricity, wringing him out into an exhausted mess, he managed to stay in one piece. He collapsed against Sherlock’s back, breathing in time with Sherlock’s rapid breaths as they slowly turned to normal. Coming back to himself, his eyes snapped open, reaching for Sherlock’s cock to find it soft and sticky. Thank God, he hadn’t left Sherlock hanging.

Eventually, and only when Sherlock shifted beneath him, John rolled away, scurrying off to dispose of the condom. He returned to find Sherlock back in his pants, throwing his shirt over his shoulders.

“Do you have somewhere else to be?” John asked, hopeful for the answer he wanted.

“Home.”

“You don’t have to hurry off on my account. You’re welcome to stay.”

Sherlock frowned, looking down at his hands. John’s heart leapt in his chest even as a stone thudded to the bottom of his stomach. _Please say yes._

“Well, I suppose you did pay for the entire night.”

John bounded in his mind. “Would you like to borrow some pyjamas?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking John up and down, and John was suddenly very aware that he was still in his suit.

He pulled the jacket from his shoulders. “I could at least lend you a t-shirt.”

Sherlock tossed aside his shirt and pulled back the covers. “I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock crawled in, and John followed soon after, curling himself against the back of Sherlock’s body, Sherlock’s hand over his.

John never slept better.


	16. 16 - So That's How They Teach Chemistry Nowadays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A teacher AU

“...should just shag and get it over with.”

The faculty gathered around one of the tables looked up as the door closed behind John.

“Who are you saying should shag?” John asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee, eyeing it suspiciously. “Anyone know how old this is?”

Everyone shrugged or stared at their own mugs as John fetched milk from the fridge and added it to his mug. As he watched the milk swirl into the liquid, he shrugged his own shoulders. If no one would give him an answer, he’d just have to risk it.

He sidled up to the table, taking a sip. “God, that’s awful.” He sat. “So who are we talking about?”

“Don’t you mean, ‘About whom are we talking?’” asked Philip.

“I teach literature, not grammar, Anderson, but you’re very funny.”

The teachers went silent again, glancing at each other over their various hot beverages.

“Come on. Is it a secret?”

“Just a friend of Greg’s and this bloke he professes to hate,” Sally finally answered.

“Oh. Methinks the lady doth protest too much?” John asked.

Sally giggled, and Greg shot her a glare. “Something like that,” he said.

“Oh. Well, that can be fun.”

Sally spluttered, a barely contained laugh bursting through her nose.

John blinked, a blank smile plastered to his face. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” she said, waving it away and then dabbing at the corner of her eye. “Nothing.”

John turned as the door creaked behind him. “Oh, brilliant,” he huffed, turning back to the table, resisting the urge to clench his teeth.

Bloody Holmes had just walked through the door, flouncing around like he owned the place in one of his various and sundry suits that were always just a shade too small. They were expensive enough; you’d think he could afford to get them in the right size. And always grabbing his special tea from the top shelf of the cabinet and counting the bags as if someone would actually steal one. No one wanted his fucking tea.

As he filled the kettle and set it to boil, he turned to the group, narrowing his eyes. “What’s happening here?”

“Nothing that would concern you,” John snapped.

Sherlock cocked his head, looking from person to person. “I don’t know about that. What have you been talking about?”

John pursed his lips. Couldn’t he enjoy just one--admittedly crappy--cup of coffee in peace? Everyone else at the table avoided Sherlock’s gaze, opting to glance at each other instead.

Sherlock let out a long breath. “Don’t be stupid. You know I’ll figure it out anyway.”

“Ow,” Greg muttered. Then he spoke up. “Just talking about a friend of mine.”

Sherlock stared. “And?”

Greg didn’t continue, nor did anyone else. But Sherlock kept staring. They all knew he wasn’t going to give up, and as far as John was concerned, the sooner Holmes got back to his usual routine of silently judging instead of vocally judging, the better.

“They were just talking about whether or not Greg’s friend should shag this other bloke,” John answered for the rest of them.

The kettle switched off, but Sherlock didn’t fetch it. Instead, he continued to stare at the group, folding his hands together under his chin.

“No, they weren’t.”

“Yeah,” John said with a huff, pointing at the table. “They were. I was here. Having the conversation.”

With a smirk, Sherlock turned and poured the boiling water over his tea bag. “They were talking about you.”

“What?” John turned to the gathered party, who avoided his gaze. He huffed something between a laugh and a growl. “Oh God. You must be joking.”

“Well, I really need to grade some papers,” Sally said as she rose from the table.

“I’ve a lab to set up,” said Anderson.

“Sorry, John,” Greg said as he rose as well.

“Hang on.” John turned in his chair, calling after them. “Just who am I supposed to be shagging?”

“That would be me,” Sherlock replied.

“What?” John yelled as they opened the door out. “You know he once told me that novels are a waste of time?”

As the door closed behind the other teachers, John spun to face the table with a grumble.

“So, your place or mine?” Sherlock asked as he slid into the chair across.

“Oh,” John growled. “That’s funny.”

Sherlock just looked off to the side, sipping his tea. John watched his throat work around the drink. He really didn’t think it was appropriate for a teacher to always leave the top two buttons of his shirt open, especially when he refused to wear a vest underneath. Did he even wear pants?

John licked his lips and then shook his head. Best not to go down that path. He was only thinking it because the others planted the idea in his head. He’d really have to have a talk with them later.

“Stop staring,” Sherlock said without looking at John.

“I’m not staring at you.”

Sherlock eyed him from his periphery with a little nod and a frown.

John crossed his arms. “I’m not.”

John took a gulp of coffee, grimacing at the taste. Sherlock smirked at his own tea, a little laugh bobbing his head.

“What? Don’t tell me you agree with them.”

“That you want to shag me? Yes, I do.”

John scoffed. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me next that you want to shag me.”

Sherlock traced a fingertip over the ring of his mug. “I was considering it.”

John stared for a moment before falling back in his chair, muttering, “This is ridiculous.”

They sat in silence for a moment while John considered chucking his coffee and leaving, but then Sherlock stood, smoothing down his suit and tugging it into place.

“Unlike the others, I really must dash.”

“Oh,” John said, snapping back from his daze. “All right.”

Sherlock picked up his mug and then paused, frowning at John, his brows furrowed. After a moment, he tapped two fingers against the table. John watched them as Sherlock walked to John’s side of the table, his fingers trailing along. When he reached John’s side, he tapped them again.

“My address is 221b Baker Street. I’ll be home by six o’clock this evening.”

John looked up, dropping his jaw. He blinked several times before asking, “Why are you telling me this?”

Sherlock shrugged, his eyes on the door behind John. “I thought you might be interested.”

With that, Sherlock crossed to the sink, cleaned his mug, and left.


	17. 17 - Chemical Reactions too Dangerous for the Classroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the previous chapter. There will be a part 3, hopefully later tonight.

John climbed the stairs from the Baker Street tube station, still unsure how he even got there. It was literally in the opposite direction of his flat. He had been on his way home. He had been waiting for the train. But then one had pulled up to the opposite side of the platform. He had glanced at the people trickling in and out, listening to the soothing voice warning them to mind the gap, but he hadn’t moved. He was not going to let Sherlock get into his head. Hell, he had probably invited John over just to see if he’d do it. And then lord it over him for the rest of the term.

No, he wasn’t going.

But then, the same soothing voice had requested that people stay clear of the closing doors, and he’d darted inside, clenching his fist around the pole just past the door. His heart had raced and his stomach had dropped.

And now, just a few steps from the pavement, the knots in his throat and gut refused to ease, only growing tighter with each passing step. He stopped, a fellow commuter bumping into his back and cursing under his breath before walking around. Shaking his head, John crossed to the other side of the staircase and trotted down. How ridiculous had he been? It was laughable, really.

But, once he reached the first landing, he stopped again, re-joining the exiting crowd. This didn’t actually mean that he wanted to shag Sherlock, obviously. But they did need to talk. They couldn’t have this hanging over their heads, and there was no way they could actually discuss it at school. Not if they were going to handle it like grown men. Just because they spent all day with teenagers didn’t mean they had to act like them.

But then, he was at Sherlock’s front door, staring at the shiny numbers and crooked knocker. One foot lifted, gingerly landing on the first step. John swallowed.

No, fuck this. He wasn’t that much of an adult. And for all he knew, Sherlock was going to pounce on him the second he opened the door. And then where would he be? Pinned against a wall? Sherlock mouthing down his neck? Wrapping those long fingers over his hips?

Despite the hitch that was most decidedly not in John’s breath, he returned his foot to the pavement and spun on his heel. He walked several steps, watching the bustle in the cafe next door as he went. A woman near the window chewed on a really good-looking toasted sandwich. And the smells--John paused, inhaling through his nose--well, they were delicious.

He didn’t have anything in at home. He might as well eat something since he was here. So, he spun again, walking into the over-heated air of the cafe. He ordered a sandwich and sat down at a table to wait. While he waited, he fished a stack of papers from his bag. He was behind on grading essays.

A couple of papers in, he finally heard his name called from the counter. He stood, finishing a note as he rose, and walked to the counter. He grabbed napkins and utensils and turned back to his table.

Sherlock was sitting there, reading one of the graded papers.

John plopped into his chair with a huff. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock laid the paper flat on the table, pointing to it. “Are you aware you missed a grammatical error here?”

“Yes. You are aware that I teach English literature, right?”

“Yes.” Sherlock went back to reading the essay, frowning at another error farther down the page.

John snatched it out of Sherlock’s hand. “I prefer to give my students a little leeway on grammar as long as their theses are well supported.”

“How benevolent of you.”

John pursed his lips. “What do you want?”

“The same thing you do, I imagine,” Sherlock replied with a raised eyebrow.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“So you just stopped for a bite to eat that just happened to be right below my flat?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock’s other eyebrow joined the first.

“No.” John shook his head. “But I’m not-- I’m not here for that.”

Sherlock looked him up and down, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was like he was laughing at John and picturing him naked at the same time.

“Stop that,” John said, straightening his tie and tugging down his cardigan. God, that was unnerving.

Sherlock didn’t stop staring, and John blanched. He turned sideways at the table, trying to focus his attention on the cafe instead of the man sitting across from him. But he could still feel the gaze, making goosebumps prickle at the back of his neck. He cleared his throat.

“Aren’t you going to eat your sandwich?” came Sherlock’s voice.

John winced, looking over at Sherlock. “Wha-- Oh. Right. Yes.”

John took a bite.

“So why are you really here, John?”

John swallowed around an improperly chewed bite. “We need to talk.”

“Well, I was last tested for STI’s six months ago, and I haven’t had a partner since then. You’ve had--is it three or four?--partners in the past year, so I rather hope you’ve been tested more recent--”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” John cringed. “Not that. I’ve been tested recently, but that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“Oh. In that case, I prefer to be the penetrated partner. If you’d rather do it the other way, I would be amenable, but I really find prostate stimulation to be…”

The rest of Sherlock’s words morphed into meaningless syllables as John’s runaway imagination took over. The image of Sherlock’s bare back and bum dominated his imagination. He envisioned his hand sweeping over Sherlock’s spine, watching it arch and bow, spreading Sherlock’s cheeks to watch himself slide in and out.

John shivered.

“Ah.” Sherlock smiled. “There it is. You nearly had me fooled, John. You should be congratulated.”

“What?” John snapped back to attention. “What are you talking about?”

“I admit, sometimes I have trouble reading interpersonal signals, and I had started to wonder if I was wrong about you. Thank you for the proof.”

“I see,” John said, crossing his arms, spreading his legs wide as he sat back. “Congratulations. You proved your point. What now? You get to come in Monday morning and tell the other teachers how you humiliated Mr. Watson?”

“Really, John. Do I seem the type to participate in idle gossip?”

John thought about it. “No. I suppose not. Then what was this about?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake. You can’t really be this obtuse.”

“Oh,” John said. “So you were actually serious.”

“Yes.”

“Well, um”--John swallowed, cleared his throat--”all right. Let me just-- My sandwich.”

“Yes, of course, have it wrapped up and then come upstairs. I’ll leave the door unlocked for you.” Sherlock stood, buttoning his suit jacket. Suddenly, the tightness of his suits didn’t annoy John quite so much.

“Thanks. I’ll, um, see you in a minute.”

“I look forward to it.”


	18. 18 - Private Tutoring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of Teacherlock

When John finally made it up the stairs, Sherlock was waiting for him, shoes off and cuffs unbuttoned. So this was really happening. He wasn’t sure he had gone from rueing Sherlock’s existence to shagging him in his--incredibly messy--flat. (Was he a hoarder?) And he still wasn’t sure if this was a good idea. In fact, he was fairly sure it wasn’t, but that wasn’t going to keep him from staying.

“So, could I-- Would it be all right if I put this in your fridge?”

Sherlock looked at the sandwich in John’s hand, and he nodded, starting in on the buttons of his own shirt. “Of course.”

John’s gaze caught on Sherlock’s fingers before it snapped back to his face. John cleared his throat. “Okay. Thank you.”

When John turned for the fridge, he didn’t miss the smirk on Sherlock’s face, and he could feel his face heat. Damn it, Watson. Get yourself under control. He squared his shoulders and went straight for the fridge, opening the door and then immediately closing it. Was that…

He opened the door. “Is that a foot?”

Sherlock’s chest butted up against John’s back, trapping him between Sherlock and the severed foot. “Excellent observation skills, John.”

John glanced over his shoulder, his heart beating faster than Usain Bolt. “Why do you have a foot in your fridge?”

“Don’t worry. I keep the top shelf clean for food. It won’t contaminate your sandwich.” And with that, Sherlock disappeared through a door that must have gone to the bedroom.

John set his sandwich on the top shelf. “That wasn’t quite what I asked.”

“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with,” came Sherlock’s voice, and when John turned the corner into the room, he found Sherlock already out of his trousers, threading them into a hanger.

“Actually”--he propped himself in the doorway and crossed his arms--”I think I do. Pardon me if I’d rather not be shagging a serial killer with a foot fetish.”

“I’m not a serial killer.” Sherlock smirked. “But we’ll see about the foot fetish.”

John waited, refusing to budge from his spot by the door. He would be damned if he didn’t get a proper answer.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “They came from a friend of mine at the morgue. They’re for an experiment. Satisfied?”

John huffed a laugh. “I’m not sure that’s the word for it.”

“Are you sufficiently convinced that I’m not a serial killer?”

John shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“Well then, I would suggest you take off your clothes so that we can get started.”

John laughed again, but he still loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it and the cardigan from his shoulders at the same time. He looked around for a moment for a place to put them before deciding to just drop them on the floor.

He did the same with his shoes, trousers, t-shirt, pants, socks, and then he and Sherlock stood at opposite sides of the bedroom. Stark naked.

How romantic.

They stood there, just staring at each other, for a long moment before John finally huffed and crossed the room, stopping about a foot from Sherlock.

“Still want to go through with this?” John asked.

“Yes, of course, John. Don’t be so obtu--”

John grabbed Sherlock by the nape and yanked him down into a kiss, effectively shutting him up. And wasn’t it just the most glorious silence. Plus, John had to admit that Sherlock’s lips were sexy as hell, the deep cupid’s bow and pouty bottom lip. God. John bit it, tugging the pout into his mouth, and Sherlock groaned.

I sounded just as John expected it, low and rumbling, but it had a touch of desperation to it that zinged straight down John’s spine. He thrilled to it, desperate to elicit more of that sound, see what other noises he could get Sherlock to make. To see such a buttoned-up control freak taken apart, God, what a feeling.

With another rumble, Sherlock gathered John’s head into his hands, tipping it back as he took a step forward. Their naked bodies collided for the first time, John’s chest hair tickling against Sherlock’s bare abdomen, Sherlock’s burgeoning erection nestled against John’s belly.

John let his head fall back into the caress, opening his mouth to Sherlock’s gentle exploration, losing himself in it. Blood buzzed in his ears. The room turned hazy. His muscles relaxed. Somehow, it was a relief, like a lifetime of stress just melted away, and he sighed.

“You’re a good kisser,” he murmured against Sherlock’s mouth, sliding his hands down Sherlock’s back until he could get his hands on that marvel of an arse.

Sherlock hummed, his cock twitching against John’s stomach, and John echoed. Fuck, Sherlock was responsive. Was he always like this, or was he just especially eager with John? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care to find out. But God, if he knew it would be like this, he would have shagged Sherlock ages ago.

As it was, this standing and kissing business was just not enough. John wanted Sherlock on his back beneath John, legs splayed open, face eager, back arched. He wanted to slot himself between those legs, let his weight settle on Sherlock, taste that long neck.

He broke from Sherlock’s mouth, nudging his nose under Sherlock’s chin until he finally tipped back his head, and John dipped, scraping his teeth against Sherlock’s Adam’s apple, savoring the rumble that buzzed against John’s mouth. He mouthed his way down Sherlock’s neck, over his clavicle. Sherlock’s hands never left John’s head, nails skating along John’s scalp, making him shiver. Though truly, he couldn’t tell if it was the tingling in his scalp or the effect of Sherlock’s soft breaths, his moans, his grunts, the caused it.

This morning he was sure that he hated Sherlock. Couldn’t stand his presence. But now, like this, John couldn’t stand the thought of being anywhere else. Even if that meant proving Sherlock right. He wanted Sherlock like nothing else.

“Get on the bed,” John growled into Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock was away in a flash, climbing on his hands and knees towards the headboard. God, what a sight. His hips swayed with each move, and the muscles in his back stretched and shifted under his skin.

“Stop there,” John said when Sherlock shifted to face John. “I want you just like that.”

Without a word, Sherlock went back to his hands and knees, his spine arched, thrusting his arse in the air.

“God, you look…” John didn’t bother finishing the sentence in favor of climbing on the bed behind Sherlock, shuffling his knees between Sherlock’s, and draping his body over Sherlock’s back. Sherlock’s skin was impossibly smooth, and not just on his back. John slid his palms up and down Sherlock’s sides, down his arms, over his hips. Every inch of skin felt luxurious under his hands.

John traced the ridges of Sherlock’s abdominals, and Sherlock yelped, curving his back like a scared cat, and John chuckled. He did it again, this time running the backs of his fingernails over the skin instead. Sherlock managed to keep it together for a bit before giggling and curling in on himself.

John followed Sherlock down to his side, propping himself on an elbow as he spooned himself behind Sherlock. “You’re ticklish.”

“No,” Sherlock muttered, a pout forming on his lips, and God, it was adorable. John belly-laughed. It was fucking adorable. Completely not what he expected from the bloke he knew from school.

He tucked a lock of hair behind Sherlock’s ear. “You’re not what I expected.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” John frowned, furrowing his brows. “I guess.”

John drew curves over Sherlock’s shoulder, down his arm, and barely resisted the urge to continue on Sherlock’s vulnerable underbelly. However, there was one temptation he couldn’t quite resist when Sherlock’s warm, mobile body was nestled up against his. When his cock skimmed the skin of Sherlock’s buttocks.

Chuckling at Sherlock’s momentary tensing, John slid his palm down the center of Sherlock’s abdomen, nosing the crook behind Sherlock’s ear to whisper, “I’m not going to tickle you.”

Sherlock rocked his arse against John, turning his head to speak directly to John’s mouth, “I can see that.”

John’s fingers combed through the trail of hair leading down from Sherlock’s navel, his own lips tantalizingly close to Sherlock’s. “Is this still what you want?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.” With that, Sherlock surged up, capturing John’s mouth and pulling him down off his elbow by sheer force of will. The angle of the kiss was awkward, both their necks strained to keep them together, but God it was glorious. If John thought he had been enamored with Sherlock’s lips, he was a fool. Sherlock’s tongue was where it was at. As skilled at kissing as it was a shooting barbs. Velvety and minty with just a hint of… was that pipe smoke?

It was only with the press of Sherlock’s groin at John’s hand that he remembered what he was planning to do with it. Breaking off the kiss to see Sherlock’s face, John splayed his hand downwards from Sherlock’s navel, his fingertips barely brushing the silken skin of Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock gasped, his mouth falling into an O-shape. God, that was beautiful.

John watched Sherlock’s face, teasing out microexpressions and hitches in breath, tiny thrusts of hips and presses of shoulders. He glided his palm down Sherlock’s lower abdomen until the base of Sherlock’s cock rested against the crook between John’s forefinger and thumb. And then he pressed farther, making Sherlock’s cock tilt away from his body, and Sherlock keened.

“John,” he huffed, pressing himself against John’s hand. John slid his hand back up Sherlock’s abdomen with the plan of teasing him for a while, but the noise Sherlock made. Fuck. The pure desperation in it. How could John go through with it?

He had mercy, wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock did not disappoint, his mouth falling open and his eyes falling shut. His hips canted into John’s hand, his cock pulsing and twitching in John’s grip.

“Are you that sensitive, or am I that good?” John asked, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock squirmed, his arse pressing back against John, sending a bolt of arousal through John’s body. He canted his own hips against Sherlock, drawing a wet line on Sherlock’s coccyx.

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, reaching up to drag John’s face down to his.

Sherlock’s shoulder pressed uncomfortably to John’s chest, but John just couldn’t bring himself to care. Because Sherlock was quickly coming apart in his hands, spiking John’s arousal, coiling it tight in his groin, almost as much as the soft, supple arse rocking against him. Though Sherlock initiated the kiss, he was the first to let it fall away, panting against John’s mouth, and John closed his eyes against the hot puffs of breath huffing against his cheek.

“Beautiful,” John muttered, thrusting against Sherlock’s arse. “Fuck. You’re so--”

“John,” Sherlock huffed, biting his lip. “I’m close. I’m going to--”

“I’ve got you.” John’s hips lost rhythm, warring between savoring the experience and chasing the impending orgasm, but the coil wound tighter and tighter. “I’ve got you.”

Sherlock bit hard on his lip, and John covered it with his own. Together, they raced for the edge, their panting breaths hot and fast against each other. And when John felt Sherlock’s cock swell and pulse in his hand, spilling over his fingers, John shuddered, his own orgasm wringing the last little bit of tension that dared to hold on.

After a moment, he let out a long breath that he didn’t know he was holding and rolled away. His eyes blinked slowly at the grey ceiling, deep burnished orange that filtered through the curtains drawing thin lines across. They lay in silence, Sherlock rolling over to his stomach while John twirled Sherlock’s ringlets in his fingers, for a few minutes before the quiet started getting to John.

“I should probably go home before it gets too late. I don’t have a change of clothes here.”

Sherlock scoffed. “As if anyone would notice. Your wardrobe doesn’t vary much.”

John chuckled. “Are you trying to suggest that I stay here?”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock rolled over to face John. “My flat is closer to the school. You’ll get more sleep if you stay here. Plus, surely you haven’t ruled out the possibility of another round. We didn’t get to everything I planned.”

“Well, this I have to see.” John smiled.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, his eyes sparkling.

“But we’re ordering take away. I can’t bring myself to eat the foot sandwich.”

  
  
  
  



	19. 19 - Ferris Wheel Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin

Of all the places John would expect to get stuck with Sherlock, he never would have thought one of them would be a state fair in Nebraska. Nor would he have thought it would be near the top of a rickety, cramped ferris wheel that was probably shipped in on a flatbed only a few days prior.

But, when Sherlock’s working a case, and the perp flees the country, he follows. And John goes with him, because of course he would, and because if he didn’t, Sherlock would probably find a way to get himself in serious trouble. So, they caught the first flight to America, landing in Chicago and then on to Omaha. Apparently, the perp had a thing for corn because once they left Omaha, that was all John and Sherlock had seen.

After wading through all that corn, the crop dusters flying overhead making John feel like Cary Grant, they finally tracked their suspect to the fair only to lose him in the crowds. Really, was the entire population of Nebraska there? Sherlock had then nicked a pair of binoculars from a demolition-derby spectator and dragged John to the ferris wheel, insisting that it had the best vantage point.

Now, here they were, swinging in the wind. Even if Sherlock did get eyes on the bloke, they couldn’t do anything about it. Unless Sherlock was planning to scale the frame of the ferris wheel.

_Oh God. Please say he’s not going to climb down this thing._

“I knew this was going to happen,” John said to a Sherlock with binoculars plastered to his face.

“Hmm?”

“I knew we’d get stuck.” John shifted in his seat, wrenching his arm from where it was trapped behind Sherlock’s shoulder, only to have it plastered to his front instead. He tried rotating to the outside. He tried rotating to the inside.

“Stop moving, John. You’re rocking the carriage.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t plan to be packed into a metal cage like a couple of sardines.” God, Sherlock’s elbows were sharp.

“Please, John. This is hardly a cage. It’s just a seat with a bar across it.” Sherlock dropped the binoculars into his lap as he turned to face John, crowding John’s knees together.

“Thanks for the vocabulary lesson.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “You’re welcome.”

“Now could you give me some room?”

With a sigh, Sherlock lifted his arm and laid it over the back of the seat. “Better?”

John glanced back at the arm. “A bit.”

Sherlock watched the fair from his perch, though the binoculars stayed in his lap. A gust of wind rocked the seat, making it creak and screech, and John grabbed onto the nearest things--the lap bar and Sherlock’s knee.

“Afraid of heights?” Sherlock asked with a bit too much glee in his voice.

“When I’m at the top of an ancient, broken ferris wheel that’s in God-knows-what condition, yeah.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll catch you.”

A smile pulled at John’s face before he just burst into laughter.

“What?” Sherlock asked, looking affronted.

John wheezed. “Oh God”--his shoulders shook--”thanks, Sherlock. I needed that.”

Sherlock pouted. “I was serious.”

John narrowed his eyes. “No you weren’t.”

“All right.” Sherlock shrugged. “I wasn’t.”

John settled back in the seat, resting his head on Sherlock’s arm. “Any deductions on when we might get out of here?”

Sherlock leaned forward, his hand landing on John’s shoulder. “No one’s working on the problem. I’d imagine they’ve called a mechanic, but I don’t have sufficient knowledge of ferris wheels to estimate how long the repairs will take.”

John tutted. “Useless, you are.”

Sherlock sat back, shrugging. He looked to the sky. “At least it’s a nice night.”

John looked up. “Wow. The last time I saw that many stars, I was getting shot at.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so many. They’re beautiful.”

John smiled, laying back his head and pointing to the north. “There’s Cassiopeia.”

“I don’t care to learn the constellations, John.”

“Well, you can delete them when we get down. Unless you can think of something better to do?”

Sherlock squeezed John’s shoulder. “I can.”

“What?” John turned his head to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded towards his legs, and John looked down to find his hand still on Sherlock’s knee.

“Oh.” He sat up straight, lifting his hand. “Sorry.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Oh.” John let his hand hover near Sherlock’s leg before placing it back down. He slid his hand up Sherlock’s thigh and back down again, and his heart skipped. “Me neither.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Good.”

What happened next? Was John meant to kiss him? Did he just like the physical contact? Did he want a cuddle?

John peered up at Sherlock, who watched John’s hand on his knee. He bit his bottom lip, looking like a shy puppy, and that made John’s decision easy. He leaned over and placed a small kiss on Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock’s face was a bit stubbly--he hadn’t shaved since they got on the plane--and it tickled John’s lips. John pressed his lips together to ease the tickle.

Sherlock turned his head, watching John’s mouth, and John smiled.

“Well?” John asked. “What do you say?”

Sherlock’s mouth popped open on a tiny gasp, and he leaned down, tentatively laying his lips against John’s.

The ferris wheel lurched and creaked to life, and Sherlock flinched away, staring straight forward. John frowned, furrowing his brow. What was that about?

The ferris wheel stopped again, and John looked down to see a couple getting off. He pursed his lips. He hadn’t climbed in the seat intending to snog Sherlock, but now that the opportunity was slipping away…

John grabbed Sherlock’s face and pulled their mouths together. This time, when the ferris wheel lurched again, Sherlock didn’t break away. Instead, his mouth opened, and his tongue pressed into John’s mouth, hungry and searching.

_Oh, hell yes._

John pulled away with a smile, his hands still on Sherlock’s face.

“What was that for?” Sherlock asked.

John smiled. “Everyone should have a snog on the ferris wheel at least once in their lives.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Very astute observation, John. Shall we get back to it?”


End file.
